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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 


THE  COLLECTION  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINIANA 

PRESENTED  BY 

S,   S.  Robins 


G813 
T72r 


^  M 


THE    PARTING. 


"  yumpinginto  the  frail  vehicle^  shook  the  lines,  spoke  sharply  to  the  fretting 
steeds  and  dashed  along  the  road  into  the  very  face  of  the  coming  storm."' — 

p.  444. 


A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 


BY 


ALBION  W.  TOURGEE,  LL.D., 

Author  of  "A  Fool's  Errand,"    "Bricks  Without  Straw/' 

"Figs  and  Thistles,"  etc. 


AND 


'ZOURI'S    CHRISTMAS, 


BY   THE   SAME    AUTHOR. 


NEW   YORK: 

FORDS,    HOWARD,    &    HULBERT. 
Boston   and    Concord:     D.    L.    GUERNSEY. 


COPYRIGHT, 

1874,  BY  J,  B.  Ford  &  Co., 
188 1,    BY   Albion    W.   Tourgee. 


All  Rights  Reserved. 


Manufac  hired  by 

S.  W.  GREEN'S    SON, 

74  &  76  Beekman  St., 

MEW  YOKK. 


PREFACE. 


THIS  tale  was  written  in  1868-9,  amid  the  scenes 
and  shortly  after  some  of  the  veritable  incidents 
which  it  describes.  It  was  originally  published  in  1874, 
under  the  title  of  "Toinette,"  the  name  of  the  principal 
female  character,  although  not  the  pivotal  person  on 
whom  the  whole  action  of  the  drama  turns. 

The  book  was  written  because  its  incidents,  in  effect, 
had  passed  before  my  eyes  with  such  vividness  that  I 
could  not  but  write.  At  that  time  (1868-9)  I  ^^^  "o 
idea  of  publishing.  The  simple  delight  of  portraying 
what  I  observed  was  my  only  motive. 

In  the  summer  of  1865,  before  the  battle-smoke  had 
well  cleared  away,  I  settled  near  Greensborough,  N.  C, 
in  the  hope  that  a  milder  climate  might  aid  me  to 
prolong  a  life  somewhat  shattered  by  the  shocks  of  war. 
My  idea  of  Southern  life  was  mainly  derived  from  the 
literature  of  the  era  before  the  war.  It  is  true  that 
service  in  the  army  had  somewhat  modified  it,  but  in 
the  main  I  venture  to  say  that  it  was  a  fair  reflex  of 
the  idea  and  sentiment  of  the  intelligent  Northern  man 
of  my  age  at  that  period.  After  I  went  South,  the  con- 
trast between  these  pre-notions  and  what  I  saw  of  the 
life  around  me,  and  the  fresh  relics  of  the  life  which 
had  just  passed  away,  impressed  me  keenly,  and  soon 
became  a  subject  of  engrossing  interest. 

I  saw,  or  thought  I  saw,  that  the  conscious  evils  of 
slavery — the  cruel  lash,  the  impossible  task,  and  what- 


lU 


iv  A   ROYAL    GENTLEMAN. 

ever  of  opportunity  for  malice  the  system  gave  rise  to — 
had  been,  if  not  magnified,  at  least  disproportionately 
dwelt  upon  by  the  anti-slavery  writers  of  the  North. 
At  the  same  time,  as  I  conceived,  the  u7iconscious  evils  of 
the  system — those  which  warped  the  brain  and  heart  of 
the  master  as  well  as  dwarfed  the  soul  of  the  slave — had 
been  allowed  to  drop  out  of  sight  in  the  heat  of  par- 
tisan advocacy.  I  noticed,  too,  that  these  unconscious 
evils  were  the  very  ones  which  had  left  their  marks 
upon  character,  and  that  every  one  who  had  been  sub- 
mitted to  their  influences  was  more  or  less  scarred  by 
them — especially  the  master  race ;  and  that  these  in- 
fluences were  a  part  of  slavery  which  could  not  be 
"abolished."  It  was  beyond  the  power  of  Military 
Proclamation,  Constitutional  Amendment,  or  legal  enact- 
ment— immortal  as  the  essence  on  which  its  impress  was 
inscribed.  I  found,  too,  that  the  non-slaveholding  whites 
of  the  South  had  been  unfairly  massed,  and  represented 
to  the  Northern  mind  by  the  terms  "poor  white,"  "mean 
white,"  and  "white  trash;"  while  in  fact  they  ranged 
from  this  type  up  through  the  better  class  of  "crop- 
pers"— the  metayers  of  the  South — to  the  small  farmers 
and  even  considerable  land-owners,  who  depended  on 
their  own  labor  and  that  of  free-born  "  hirelings"  for  the 
cultivation  of  their  crops.  Impressed  by  these  and 
other  differences,  I  wrote,  setting  down  naught  in  anger, 
nor  contriving  aught  of  malice  against  any  man  or  sys- 
tem— and  not,  indeed,  for  the  public  eye,  but  for  my 
own  pleasure  merely.  The  manuscript  knocked  about 
my  library — a  fragment  of  it  now  and  then  being  read  for 
the  entertainment  of  some  friend — until  1874,  when  one 
whose  name  is  itself  an  authority  urged  its  publication. 

The  story  is  the  delineation  of  a  romantic  sentiment, 
having  its  root  in  slavery,  but  its  flower  and  fruitage  in 


PREFACE.  y 

freedom,  and  concerns  itself  with  Slavery  only  in  order 
to  mark  the  growth  of  character  under  that  influence,  and 
show  the  natural  and  necessary  sequence  by  which  later 
developments  arose.  It  carefully  traces  only  those  un- 
conscious influences  which  shape  and  mold  mental  and 
moral  qualities,  and  through  which  Slavery  still  lives  and 
dotninates. 

Since  the  first  publication  of  this  book  the  impulse  to 
go  further,  and  to  include  more  broadly — both  in  num- 
ber and  in  representative  character — the  impressions 
made  upon  my  mind  by  the  various  elements  of  life  in 
our  Southern  States,  has,  very  naturally,  but  without 
intention,  resulted  in  a  series  of  these  pictures.  The 
past  quarter  of  a  century  has  been  a  remarkable  era — 
the  meeting  point  of  divergent  systems,  the  arena 
where  antagonistic  civilizations  struggled  for  mastery. 
Knowledge  and  ignorance,  slavery  and  freedom,  North- 
man and  Southron,  Caucasian  and  African  were  the 
opposing  forces  and  contrasted  elements.  Scarcely 
any  age  or  nation  presents  so  rich  a  field  of  romantic 
incident  as  the  conflict  of  these  forces,  viewed  at  first  by 
the  glare  of  battle  and  afterward  by  the  fitful  gleam  of 
the  embers  of  revolution. 

The  relations  between  a  subject  and  a  dominant  race 
are  always  fruitful  of  romance.  Inequality  of  rank 
(which  may  be  said  to  culminate  in  the  relation  of  mas- 
ter and  slave)  is  the  burden  of  nearly  all  romantic  fic- 
tion. In  our  Southern  States,  since  the  legal  status  of 
the  two  races  has  become  identical,  it  is  a  task  of  extreme 
delicacy  to  trace  the  line  of  previous  habit  and  note  its 
continued  strength.  What  the  observer  may  clearly 
recognize  it  may  be  difficult  to  convey  to  the  reader's 
mind,  because  the  life  of  the  present  is  engrafted  on  the 
root  of  the  past — because  Yesterday  binds  with  fetters 


/ 


Vi  A    ROYAL    GENTLEMAN. 

of  brass  To-day.  Yet  this  very  difficulty  adds  a  kind  of 
zest  to  the  task,  and  the  student  of  history  may  well 
pause  to  consider  carefully  these  strange  and  strongly 
contrasted  elements  while  yet  they  are  incongruous  in 
their  new  relations,  and  before  the  Old  shall  have  grad- 
ually given  way  to  the  irresistible  New. 

"^  Fool's  Errand,''  written  in  the  summer  of  1879, 
deals  chiefly  with  the  turbulent  era  of  what  has  been 
called  "Reconstruction,"  and,  naturally,  depicts  the 
typical  elements  that  were  prominent  in  that  seething 
caldron  of  politics  heated  by  the  fiery  passions  of  caste. 

" 'ZourVs  ChristtnaSy'  which  is  included  in  the  present 
volume,  gives  another  view — a  brighter  and  pleasanter 
one,  showing  the  kindly  feelings  between  the  freedman's 
family  and  the  former  master  and  mistress,  a  case  in 
which  continuing  relations  of  dependence,  though  no 
longer  of  bondage,  preserve  in  the  dominant  race  all  the 
generous  cordiality  which  they  feel  for  the  negro  "  in  his 
own  place."  Its  importance  as  a  social  study  is  not 
indicated  by  its  brevity. 

In  ^''Bricks  Without  Straw*^  some  aspects  of  the  present 
condition  of  the  colored  race  (1880)  and  their  relations 
to  the  whites  in  the  great  matters  of  Labor  and  Education 
afford  still  another  point  of  view,  and  present  still  new 
types  of  character  and  romantic  interest. 

No  one  of  these  pictures  professes  to  be  a  complete  or 
perfect  representation  of  the  whole  era,  but  only  of  por- 
tions of  it,  and  of  the  types  selected,  each  picture  being 
taken  from  a  standpoint  peculiar  to  itself. 

A  new  edition  of  the  present  work  has  been 
called  for,  and,  in  order  that  it  may  take  its 
proper  and  permanent  place  in  this  unpremeditated 
"  series,"  as  setting  forth  the  prime  and  simplest  ele- 
ments of  the  whole  system  of  the  Southern  civilization 


\ 


PREFACE.  yii 

— the  Master  and  the  Slave,  separated  by  the  whole 
diameter  of  the  social  sphere,  and  yet  united  in  a  com- 
mon destiny  by  that  universal  human  passion,  love — I 
have  revised  it,  eliminated  some  extraneous  matter, 
restored  the  original  plan  of  the  work,  which  followed 
the  facts  in  leaving  the  central  problem  unsolved,  and 
have  given  it  the  title  which  its  main  character  naturally 
demands — "^4  Royal  Ge?itle7ftan.'' 

For  the  types  portrayed  I  claim  only  the  utmost  exact- 
ness in  tracing  the  verisimilitude  of  nature.  That  they 
do  not  conform  to  certain  conventional  pre-notions  may 
be  freely  admitted.  If  the  Poor  White,  the  Slave,  the 
Freedman,  and  the  Royal  Gentleman  are  not  as  degraded, 
as  astute,  as  apish,  as  brutal  or  as  noble  as  we  have 
been  wont  to  have  them  pictured  for  us,  assuredly  the 
fault  is  not  in  the  present  delineator.  If  the  unconscious 
influences  of  a  former  r^gi?ne  are  here  accounted  more 
potent  in  producing  the  effects  which  we  behold  to-day 
than  the  more  apparent  and  tangible  horrors  of  slavery, 
it  is  only  because  long  and  patient  study  has  taught  the 
fact.  If  the  reader  shall  be  surprised  to  find  the  idea 
intimated  that  the  dominant  race  suffered  greater  loss, 
from  the  relation  of  slavery  than  the  servile  one,  without 
any  of  that  compensating  development  which  the  latter- 
received,  the  writer  cannot  admit  himself  in  error,  how- 
ever startling  the  proposition.  If  the  typical  Royal  Gen- 
tleman shall  apparently  lack  some  of  those  regal  attri- 
butes with  which  our  fancy  has  been  wont  to  clothe  his 
class,  the  writer  can  only  regret  that  the  term  has  not 
been  more  sharply  defined  or  the  attributes  of  the  class 
more  clearly  and  justly  analyzed  hitherto. 

In  examining  the  many  press  notices,  letters,  etc., 
which  the  original  issue  of  the  story  called  forth,  it  has 
been  amusing  to  note  that  points  of  the  book  which  at 


viii  A   ROYAL   GENTLEMAN. 

the  North  are  accounted  defects,  at  the  South  are  con- 
sidered excellences,  and  vice  versa.  Perhaps  few  things 
have  been  more  sharply  criticised  at  the  North  than  the 
putting  of  the  popular  dialect  into  the  mouth  of  Manuel 
Hunter,  who  is  represented  as  an  able  and  accomplished 
lawyer,  and  a  politician  of  national  eminence.  At  the 
South,  on  the  other  hand,  the  truth  of  this  representation 
has  been  universally  recognized.  So  life-like,  indeed,  is 
this  picture,  that  hundreds  of  readers  without  hesitation 
pitched  upon  one  who  was  among  the  most  eminent  and 
accomplished  lawyers  of  his  day  and  State  as  its  original ; 
not  from  the  circumstances  of  his  life,  for  these  did  not 
accord,  but  from  the  close  imitation  of  his  language  and 
manner.     One    of  his   contemporaries,    writing   to   me, 

says  :  "  I  can  see in  every  line  of  Manuel  Hunter. 

He  was  a  grand  man,  and  you  have  drawn  him  to  the 
life.  I  believe  no  one  has  ever  noticed  before  how  our 
old-time  country  lawyers  affected  the  vernacular,  or  dia- 
lect rather.  I  suppose  they  did  it  to  enhance  their  power 
of  presenting  facts  to  the  jury."  To  the  Northern  mind 
this  rugged,  quaint,  but  very  English  dialect  is  the  ear- 
mark of  the  "  poor  white,"  by  whom  it  is  supposed  to 
be  employed  simply  from  ignorance;  like  the  traditional 
dialect  of  Brother  Jonathan — having  a  possible  parallel 
among  the  most  ignorant  country  folk,  but  not  to  be 
thought  of  in  the  temples  of  justice  or  \he pefietralia  of 
"first  families."  After  an  experience  of  many  years  at 
the  bar  and  on  the  bench  of  the  South,  I  can  honestly 
say  that  many  of  the  finest  and  most  eloquent  appeals  I 
have  ever  heard  addressed  to  court  or  jury  have  been 
very  largely  clothed  in  this  rough  and  peculiar  but 
wonderfully  strong  and  pungent  dialect. 

The  trouble  is  that  the  Northern  man  has  made  up  a 
South  for  himself,  and,  without  the  least  hesitation,  criti- 


PREFACE.  ix 

cises  any  departure  from  the  original  of  his  own  imagina- 
tion as  untrue  to  life. 

The  same  stricture  has  been  made  as  to  Betty  Certain. 
She  sometimes  uses  the  vernacular  dialect  and  sometimes 
does  not.  This  would  be  unnatural  at  the  North,  where 
such  a  dialect  would  be  considered  evidence  of  igno- 
rance, of  which  everyone  is  anxious  to  avoid  the  impu- 
tation. At  the  South,  however,  it  will  not  do  to  judge 
any  man's  position,  wealth,  or  culture  by  his  language, 
the  clothes  he  wears,  or  the  house  he  lives  in. 

A  similar  state  of  facts  is  true  as  regards  Chapter 
XXXVII.,  "In  His  Mark."  It  has  been  severely  de- 
nounced at  the  North  as  a  piece  of  unnatural  and  im- 
possible cruelty  of  spirit.  At  the  South  it  has  received, 
perhaps,  more  universal  commendation  than  any  other 
part  of  the  book.  I  quote  from  the  letter  of  one  of  the 
most  accomplished  lawyers,  descended  from  one  of  the 
most  cultivated  and  influential  families  of  North  Caro- 
lina. He  says  of  it :  "  It  is  one  of  the  truest  and  subtlest 
studies  of  character  I  have  ever  read.  I  would  like  to 
know  the  incident  on  which  it  is  founded,  as  it  is  quite 
beyond  mere  invention.  I  can  see  how  it  would  seem 
despicably  mean  from  a  Yankee  stand-point — and  it  was 
mean,  considering  all  its  relations;  but  just  think  what  a 
provocation — what  an  abomination — the  conduct  of  the 
heroine  seemed,  to  one  raised  as  he  had  been!" 

Finally,  I  must  add  that  this  story  is  in  "  advocacy" 
of  nothing  whatever ;  //  is  a  picture  of  facts.  Farther  it 
does  not  go  nor  lead.  Its  pages  were  written  because  "I 
looked,  and  saw,  and  a  voice  said  '  Write  !'  "  They  were 
published  after  many  days,  asking  but  the  favor  of 

"  one  moment 
Of  the  busy  world's  attention;" 


X  A    ROYAL    GENTLEMAN, 

which   has    been    kindly  accorded   in   the    demand   for 
numerous  editions. 

Issued  under  the  title  of  "^  Royal  Gentleman^''  the 
story  simply  takes  its  place  in  the  series  alluded  to,  com- 
prising works  already  published  and  others  in  course  of 
preparation.  In  putting  forth  this  edition,  the  author 
desires  to  acknowledge  his  indebtedness  to  the  public 
for  exceptional  favors,  and  to  express  the  hope  that  the 
interest  thus  shown  may  result  in  a  just  and  righteous 
comprehension  of  the  questions  which  now  press  upon 
the  nation  for  solution,  and  to  which  he  has  tried  to 
contribute  some  light. 

Albion  W.  Tourgee. 

New  York,  May  i,  1881. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

I. — Manuel  Hunter  . 
II. — "  Christmas  Gift  !" 

III. — Mabel 

IV. — From  Sire  to  Son 
V. — MoRTUA  Manus    . 
VI. — Not  in  the  Bond 
VII. — Mystery 

VIII. — Faithful  Unto  Death 
IX.— A  "  Poor  Poll  "    . 
X. — Apollo's  Oracle  . 
XI. — Nicotiniana 
XII. — A  Dead  Client 
XIII. — Warned 
XIV.—"  Oh,  Limed  Soul  !" 
XV. — "  Things  Hid  From  the  Wise 
XVI. — Out  of  Her  Sphere.     . 
XVII. — Love's  Logic 
XVIII. — Exceptio  PkOBAT  Regulam 
XIX. — Transition    . 
XX. — Before  the  Wedding    . 
XXI. — In  the  Clerk's  Office 
XXII. — The  Holograph  Proved 


>> 


PAGB 

7 
i8 

42 

55 
66 

77 

91 

100 

114 

.125 

134 

152 

158 
162 

169 
181 
190 
199 
207 
219 
236 


Kii                                           CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER 

XXIII.     Bond  Given  and  Costs  Paid    . 

PAGB 
244 

XXIV.     A  Review 

249 

XXV. — Reveille    .... 

255 

XXVI.     The  Stack  Rocks     . 

260 

XXVII.     The  Executrix 

277 

XXVIII.     Hagar       .... 

288 

XXIX. — Not  Vouched  For    . 

310 

XXX. — Chrysalid 

316 

XXXI. — Stricken 

321 

XXXII. — Darkness  .... 

Z12> 

XXXIII. — Beginning  of  the  End     . 

342 

XXXIV.     Types          .... 

346 

XXXV.     The  Hospital   . 

359 

XXXVI. — Unsubdued 

371 

XXXVIL     In  His  Mark     . 

.     376 

XXXVIII.     Dispatch  Boat,  No.  9 

I 

.     384 

XXXIX.     Light 

391 

• 

XL. — Knight  Errant 

» 

.     402 

XLI. — The  Rescue 

• 

.     411 

XLII. — In  Her  Own  Right  . 

• 

.     41S 

XLIII.     As  of  Old  . 

• 

.     424 

XLIV.— "  Get  Thee  Behind  Me,  J 

3ATA] 

n" 

.     435 

XLV. — GooD-BY,  Sweetheart 

• 

. 

.     445 

XLVI. — A  Faithful  Stewardship 

. 

.     451 

XLVII.— The  Seal  of  the  Sepulc] 

HER 

. 

.     460 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


The    Parting.     (See  page  444.)     .         .        Froritispiece 

Old  Mabel,        ....          To  face  page  31 

The  Two  Pets, 80 

Faithful  Unto   Death, 98 

Mr.  Geoffrey   and  Betty   Certain,           .         .  169 

Aristocrat   and   Poor  Poll,  ....  189 

The  Old  County  Clerk, 219 

Susan  Edwards  and  the  Lawyer,         .         .  227 

Washington   Square,   Richmond,         .         .         .  255 

The  Old  Rivals, 307 

The  Wounded   Hero, 330 

The  Man — Abraham  Lincoln,         .         ,         .  355 

The  Brand, 37S 

The  Rescue, 414 

A  Rapturous  Vision, 469 

Quillar's  Ford,  on  the  Dan,        ,        .        .  4^^ 


A   ROYAL   GENTLEMAN. 


CHAPTER   /. 

MANUEL     hunter' 

IT  was  Christmas  Eve  in  the  year  of  grace  1858. 
Manuel  Hunter  sat  in  his  private  room,  half  office 
and  half  library,  connected  with  his  spacious  mansion 
by  a  covered  way,  latticed  at  the  sides  and  overgrown 
with  vines.  The  building  was  a  substantial  brick  one, 
its  front  door  opening  on  the  main  street  of  Perham, 
a  pleasant  county-town  of  Carolina,  which  lay  in  the 
midst  of  broad  plantations  and  noble  outlying  country 
mansions,  a  rifle-shot  from  the  banks  of  the  Cold 
Spring,  a  sparkling  tributary  of  the  impetuous  river 
which  sweeps  through  the  Piedmont  valley.  It  was  a 
rambling  town  of  the  olden  time,  with  a  history  that 
went  back  into  the  ante-revolutionary  days,  when  it 
was  one  of  the  boroughs  which  were  honored  with  a 
delegate  in  the  Colonial  Assembly.  Its  wide  streets 
were  lined  with  ancient  oaks  and  graceful  elms,  and 
paved  with  a  rude  flagging  which  was  said  to  have 
been  laid  by  the  hands  of  British  soldiers. 

The  interior  of  the  room  had  that  strange  blending 
of  business  and  leisure,  of  office  and  library,  so  fre- 
quently met  with  in  the  den  of  the  Southern  legal  prac- 
titioner ;  for  Manuel  Hunter  was  a  well  -  to  -  do  lawyer, 


8  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

and  still  the  leader  on  the  circuit  where  he  practiced, 
though  now  well  past  threescore.  An  immense  fire- 
place upon  one  side,  piled  full  of  hissing  logs,  spread 
a  genial  radiance  over  the  room,  which  was  also  lighted 
by  a  tallow  dip  stuck  into  a  candlestick  whose  shape 
and  substance  were  effectually  concealed  by  greasy 
laminae,  resulting  from  the  expiring  agonies  of  an  un- 
numbered succession  of  tallow  dips  consumed  therein. 
A  collection  of  red  and  brown  clay  pipes  of  various 
patterns  and  sizes,  with  their  long  reed  stems,  so  famil- 
iar to  the  smoker  of  that  section,  adorned  one  corner 
of  the  fireplace,  and  several  shorter  editions  of  the  same 
were  stuck  in  an  open  cigar-box  upon  the  mantle,  in 
which  was  a  goodly  supply  of  tobacco — a  thin  plug 
of  which  also  peeped  from  the  capacious  pocket  of  the 
owner's  coat.  The  table  was  covered  with  a  miscella- 
neous array  of  books  and  papers,  the  usual  legal  para- 
phernalia, mixed  with  pipes,  matches,  and  almost 
anything  else  for  which  it  afforded  easy  lodgment — a 
part  of  which  debris  had  been  pushed  aside  to  make 
room  for  the  large  server  brought  by  a  sprightly  slave- 
girl,  and  which  she  was  then  in  the  act  of  taking  from 
her  head  and  depositing  thereon. 

It  had  covers  for  two,  and  a  plentiful  supply  of 
goodly  viands. 

The  girl  removed  the  napkins,  arranged  the  dishes, 
poured  out  the  coffee  and  set  the  urn  upon  coals 
dragged  from  the  fire  to  keep  it  warm,  and  then  stood 
by  as  if  awaiting  orders. 

The  master  fumbled  in  his  pocket  awhile,  and  finally, 
dragging  forth  a  bunch  of  keys,  selected  one,  and  hand- 


MANUEL  HUNTER.  9 

ing  it  to  her,  motioned  towards  a  sort  of  side-board 
on  which  stood  a  water-bucket  and  a  drinking  gourd. 
The  girl  opened  the  cupboard,  took  out  a  decanter 
and  glasses,  and  placed  them  upon  the  table. 

"That'll  do,  gal.  I'll  call  ye  to  take  'em  away," 
said  the  master,  and  the  girl  retired  and  closed  the 
door. 

Manuel  Hunter,  by  the  light  of  the  tallow  candle 
upon  the  table  and  the  flashing  fire,  was  a  man  of 
goodly  presence,  sixty  or  more,  half  gray,  somewhat 
inclined  to  corpulency,  fidgety  in  his  movements,  and 
rather  roughly  and  negligently  clothed.  As  he  sat 
there  in  his  splint-bottomed  easy  chair,  he  was  a  fine 
sample  of  a  Southern  country  attorney  at  home.  He 
had  been  a  figure  at  the  bar  in  his  day,  and  was  a 
man  of  no  mean  acquirements  in  the  law. 

He  had  had  his  share  of  honors  too.  In  the  Legis- 
lature of  his  native  State,  and  in  the  national  Congress, 
he  had  represented  his  county  and  district.  His  faculty 
of  keen  observation,  thorough  good  sense,  and  naturally 
strong  logical  power,  with  a  sort  of  quaint  humor  and 
half-affected  roughness  of  expression  and  manner,  made 
him  a  power  upon  the  stump,  and  a  wheel-horse  of  his 
party  in  the  section  where  he  resided.  There  were 
current  rumors  that  more  than  once,  and  that,  too,  in 
important  crises  of  his  party  and  the  nation,  this  un- 
couth country  lawyer  had  been  offered  positions  of  the 
first  importance  in  the  government.  Certain  it  was,  that 
in  one  of  those  massive  cases  in  the  office,  there  were 
piles  of  letters  bearing  the  frank  of  more  than  one  of 
our  great  party  leaders,  and  of  the  heads  of  more  than 


10  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

one  administration.  If,  however,  he  had  received  such 
offers,  they  had  never  been  accepted  by  him.  Though 
he  had  served  one  or  two  terms  in  Congress,  he  had 
come  back  to  his  old  mistress,  the  law,  with  renewed 
diligence  after  each  absence,  like  a  penitent  truant  to 
his  task.  There  seemed  to  be  something  in  the  intri- 
cate subtlety  and  ever-varying  analogies  and  differences, 
agreements  and  conflicts,  of  the  common  law,  which 
gave  it  an  unfailing  charm  to  his  mind.  Whether  it 
was  the  force  of  long  established  habit,  or  because  the 
rugged  energy  of  his  nature  delighted  in  its  obstacles, 
it  would  be  difficult  to  determine.  True  it  was,  and 
also  true  that  he  looked  to  his  achievements  at  the  bar 
as  the  solid  ground  of  whatever  remembrance  he  might 
receive  among  the  people.  His  political  triumphs  were 
mere  incidents  of  his  career.  They  were  sports,  though 
they  might  be  the  sports  of  a  giant. 

"Well,  Geoffy,  son,"  he  said,  taking  off  the  high- 
crowned  hat  which  comported  oddly  enough  with  the 
jeans,  he  wore,  and  removing  from  his  mouth  a  masti- 
cated segment  of  the  plug  in  his  pocket,  "  fill  the  glasses. 
You  're  young  and  peart.  Yes,  sugar.  Only  a  drop  of 
the  whiskey,  though,"  he  added,  as  the  liquor  ap- 
proached the  brim.  "  There,  there — not  too  much. 
You  want  to  make  your  old  daddy  drunk.  Stop,  stop, 
you  knave ! " 

He  took  the  glass,  and  half  its  contents  disappeared 
at  a  draught. 

He  was  one  of  those  who  are  so  often  termed  the 
"  old  style  "  of  men,  who  were  not  afraid  of  a  glass  of 
grog;  who  took  their  whiskey  "straight,"  and  knew  it 


MANUEL  HUNTER,  H 

was  pure,  because  distilled  by  themselves  or  their  neigh- 
bors. Since  the  days  of  temperance  societies,  temper- 
ance revivals,  and  prohibitory  legislation,  the  old  man 
had  been  frequently  cited  as  a  strong  argum-cnt  against 
all  such  anti-convivial  ideas  and  measures.  Whether 
it  was  the  sturdy  constitution  unimpaired  by  the  ex- 
cesses of  previous  generations,  the  quality  of  the  liquor 
which  he  drank,  or  the  fact  that  he  was  "one  of  the 
old  fellows,"  which  preserved  him  from  the  effects  of 
life-long  potations  may  well  be  left  to  the  decision  of 
those  oracles  who  preside  at  the  veiled  mysteries  of 
modern  temperance — that  shyest  of  all  virtues,  which 
hides  itself,  not  in  the  enticing  grove  or  the  darkened 
cloister,  but  under  the  seductive  veil  of  secresy  in  the 
oath-bound  Lodge — which  unites  with  exquisite  mimicry 
the  solemnities  of  the  sanctuary  and  the  gayeties  of  the 
festival. 

"  No !  no  more,"  said  he,  as  his  son  held  the  bottle 
towards  him  again.  "Well,  yes,  you  may — just  a  little. 
This  is  more  'n  half  water,  anyhow,"  with  a  gesture 
toward  his  glass.  "  That 's  good  whiskey,  though — 
some  of  the  real  old  style,  made  by  an  old  Dutchman 
at  a  little  spring-still  up  the  country.  I  got  it  for  a 
fee — half  a  barrel  on 't — six  or  eight  years  ago.  By 
the  by,  I  missed  a  mighty  plain  pint  of  law  in  the  case 
and  got  non-suited.  My  client,  old  Quarles,  you  know, 
son,  was  powerful  mad,  as  who  could  blame  him,  and, 
reaching  over  the  bar,  he  caught  my  collar,  drew  me 
down,  and  said,  *  How  's  this.  Mister  Lawyer,  they  say 
I  am  non-suited } '  *  Sho,  sho ! '  says  I,  *  didn't  you 
hear  what  the   judge  said.?'     'No,'  said  he,  somewhat 


12  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

dubiously.  'Why,  sir,'  says  I,  pompously,  'he  said  it 
was  coram  non  judice^  sir,  coratn  non  judice !'  'Did  he 
say  that?'  said  old  Quarks,  'then,  of  course,  it's  all 
right.'  He  went  off  satisfied,  and  I  kept  the  whiskey. 
I  hed  clean  forgot  it  till  just  t'other  day." 

The  old  man  chuckled  at  the  remembrance  of  his 
joke.  His  son  refilled  the  glass,  and  while  it  is  being 
emptied  let  us  look  at  him. 

A  face  over  which  twenty  summers  might  have 
passed,  a  light  brown  beard  and  moustache,  clear  gray 
eyes,  a  broad  brow,  and  hair  darker  than  the  beard. 
Above  the  middle  height,  with  a  rather  full  figure, 
dressed  in  fashionably  cut  garments  of  rich  material, 
but  with  something  of  his  father's  negligence  of  wear. 
As  he  sat  carelessly  leaning  on  his  elbow,  sipping  his 
whiskey,  and  gazing  dreamily  at  the  fire,  one  would 
have  said  of  him  that  life  had  been  easy  to  him  thus 
far,  and,  in  the  main,  pleasant;  that  his  future  was — as 
chance  should  make  it.  He  was  a  man  of  good  possibil- 
ities, of  dormant  powers.  For  the  present,  cultivated, 
indolent,  dreamy,  and  yet  of  keen  perceptions  and  quick 
sensibilities ;  somewhat  haughty  of  manner  but  frank  and 
free  among  his  friends,  and  of  generous  impulse ;  not 
unselfish  or  self-sacrificing,  but  ready  to  give  of  his 
abundance,  and  to  scatter  profusely  what  his  thrifty 
father  had  carefully  gathered.  The  whole  county  knew 
him  for  "  a  right  royal  gentleman." 

"  Well,  sonny,  let's  eat,"  said  the  old  man.  "  I 
told  them  to  bring  our  supper  here,  Geoffy,  son, 
'cause  I  wanted  to  have  a  good  talk  with  you,  and 
somehow  no  place  comes  quite   so   nateral  for   me   to 


MANUEL  HUNTER.  13 

talk  in,  as  the  old  office.  I've  done  a  heap  o*  wuk 
here,  son,  in  my  time.  Forty  years — 'twas  logs  then, 
Geoffrey — arly  an'  late,  summer  'n  winter.  Thar  a'n't 
no  nigger  'n  the  State  *s  ever  tiled  harder  'n  ole  Man- 
uel Hunter,  not  one.  An'  it's  all  been  for  you,  too, 
son — you  an'  the  gals,  now  Jeems  is  gone.  Poor  boy! 
poor  boy!  Don't  do  as  he  did,  Geoffy,  don't.  Don't 
kill  yourself  with  drink.  Yer  ole  father's  been  easy — 
too  easy,  I  'spect,  with  both  on  ye.  He  must  hev  a 
little  himself;  always  did.  But  don't  take  too  much, 
son,  don't.  There,  take  it  away,  Geoffy.  Put  it  in 
the  cupboard  there,  and  lock  it  up.  It  makes  me  sad. 
Poor  boy !  I  wanted  him  to  take  my  place  at  the 
bar,  Geoffy.  You  never  will.  More  like  yer  ma,  poor 
dear.  Yes,  I  know;  you'll  study — to  please  me,  and 
I'm  glad  of  it — though,  as  you  say,  thar  a'n't  no  need 
on  't,  as  thar  was  for  me.  No,  I  sha'n't  leave  you  in 
debt,  son.  The  old  man  ha'n't  talked  and  writ  all 
his  life  to  do  that;  and  he  knows  how  hard  'tis  for  a 
youngster,  too,  to  start  with  a  load  on  his  back.  But 
I  did  want  the  Hunter  name  to  be  kep'  up  on  the 
circuit.  The  rogues  '11  all  turn  honest  arter  I'm  dead, 
'cause  thar  '11  be  nobody  to  clar  'em.  But  there,  there ; 
let 's  not  talk  any  more  about  business  till  supper  is  over." 

As  the  meal  progressed  the  old  man  grew  cheerier 
and  their  conversation  lightened  till,  at  its  close,  he 
called  boisterously  for  the  serving-maid  to  remove  the 
remnants. 

**Toinette,  Toinette!"  he  shouted.  "Rot  the  lazy 
jade!  Call  her,  Geoffrey;  you  are  younger  than  I. 
Step  to  the  door  and  call  her,  please." 


14  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

His  son  did  as  he  was  bidden,  and  the  girl  soon 
appeared  and  removed  the  server.  The  young  man 
filled  one  of  the  long- stemmed  clay  pipes,  and,  after 
lighting,  handed  it  to  his  father;  then  drawing  forth  a 
large  meerschaum,  he  filled  and  lighted  it  for  himself. 
and  for  a  few  moments  the  two  men  resigned  them- 
selves to  a  quiet  enjoyment  of  the  vaporous  luxury. 
Their  pipes  were  not  unfit  representatives  of  them- 
selves: the  old  man's  crude  and  strong,  but  capacious 
and  not  without  a  certain  look  of  luxury ;  the  young 
man's  smooth,  compact,  and  polished  —  a  luxury  in 
itself.     At  length  the  old  man  spoke: 

"  It's  Christmas,  Geoffrey,  son,  to-morrow,  and  you 
know  next  week  whatever  plans  are  to  be  laid  for  the 
next  year's  business  must  be  settled  on;  and  now  that 
you  've  come  home — I  hope  to  stay — I  wanted  jes'  to 
talk  things  over  with  you  quietly  and  set  our  stakes 
for  the  year's  work.  I  sha'n't  leave  you  in  debt,  son, 
as  I  told  you  awhile  back,  if  I  die  to-morrow.  But  fust 
hand  me  that  bundle  of  papers  in  the  right  hand  cor- 
ner of  the  desk  there.  So.  Now  let  's  see  what  ole 
Manuel's  worth,  and  what  there  is  to  take  keer  of. 
Where  's  my  specs,  child  ?  Oh,  here  !  " — as  he  drew 
them  down  from  the  top  of  his  head. 

"Well,  what's  this.?"  said  he,  taking  the  first  paper 
from  the  file.  "  The  deed  of  the  home  place.  The 
plantation  has  been  in  the  family  ever  since  it  was 
settled.  Yer  grandfather  left  it  mortgaged,  though — 
more  'n  'twas  worth.  I  paid  it  off.  There's  the  Gard- 
ner plantation,  the  Culver  place,  the  old  Lovett  place, 
and  other  little  parcels  of  two  or  three  hundred  acres 


MANUEL  HUNTER.  15 

apiece,  mostly  lyin'  on  the  river,  and  jes'  as  good  corn 
and  terbaccer  lands  as  ever  had  a  hoe  in  them — 
plenty  of  woodland  and  seventy  odd  niggers,  besides 
the  house  servants,  to  tend  'em. 

"  You  Ve  been  livin'  on  the  Lovett  place  sence  you 
came  home  from  college.  It  was  lucky,  too,  comin' 
jest  as  Craigie  took  sick  and  I  could  get  no  overseer 
to  look  after  it.  And  you've  made  a  fine  crap,  too. 
How  do  you  like  plantation  life,  son?" 

"So  well,"  answered  Geoffrey,  "that  I  was  about 
to  ask  you  to  let  me  have  the  Lovett  place  and  the 
hands  on  it  for  Christmas  Gift,  and  allow  me  to  settle 
down  into  a  quiet  country  bachelor." 

"  Sho,  sho !  my.  boy.  Some  of  our  high-strung  gals 
about  here  would  have  you  in  their  train  afore  a 
twelvemonth,"  said  the  father,  laughingly. 

"  I  am  not  anxious  for  a  mistress,"  replied  the  son 
with  a  shrug,  "and  I  like  the  seclusion  of  the  Lovett 
place.  You  know,  father,  I  am  not  fond  of  carous- 
mg. 

"  True,  true,"  said  the  old  man,  hastily,  "  and  I 
thank  God  for  it.  But  why  not  come  home  and  live 
with  us  and  study  here  in  the  office.''" 

"Why  do  you  so  often  dine  and  sup  in  the  office, 
father?" 

The  father  smoked  a  moment  in  silence,  and  then 
said,  in  a  saddened  tone  : 

"  The  house  is  lonely,  Geoffy,  since  yer  mother  died, 
though  your  sisters  have  a  good  deal  of  company,  and 
your  aunt  is  a  good  housekeeper.     It  is  lonely." 

"You  know,"  said  Geoffrey — and  his  voice  choked, 


16  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

for  his  mother's  memory  was  pure  and  fresh  to  him — 
"it  is  not  far  to  the  Lovett  place.  I  could  ride  to 
the  office  every  day,  if  need  be." 

"So  you  could,  son,"  was  the  reply.  "It  a'n't 
just  as  I  'd  planned  it,  but  what 's  the  difference  ? 
There  a'n't  but  three  on  ye,  no  how,  an'  it 's  all 
your'n  at  last.  You  shall  have  the  Lovett  place  to 
your  share,  and  I  '11  make  you  a  deed  on  't  at  once — 
and  the  hands  and  stock.  Have  ye  enough  there 
now  to  do  the  work  on  't  ?'* 

"  One  or  two  more  could  be  worked  to  advantage," 
said  Geoffrey,  "and  there  are  no  house  servants  ex- 
cept Bob  and  old  Maggie." 

"You  ought  to  hev  another  house  servant;  a 
woman.     What  un  '11  ye  take.?*'  said  his  father. 

"  I  would  like  it  if  you  could  let  me  have  Toinette. 
She  is  young  and  lively,  and  old  Maggie  does  remind 
one  a  little  too  much  of  a  burying,  sometimes,"  an- 
swered the  son. 

"Oh,  we  couldn't  spare  Toinette!"  said  the  old 
lawyer,  with  a  sharp  glance  at  his  son,  as  if  he  were 
a  witness  under  examination. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  young  man,  without  looking 
up.  "  Any  one  you  can  spare  better  would  suit  me  as 
well." 

"So,  so;  I  knew  it,"  said  his  father.  "No,  you 
shall  hev  her.  She  was  a  favorite  with  Ruthy,  and,  as 
you  say,  is  young  and  lively.  She  '11  be  a  likely  gal 
sometime,  too.  I  '11  make  out  all  the  papers  and  give 
ye  a  plantation  ready  stocked  to  begin  with  for  your 
Christmas." 


MANUEL  HUNTER.  17 

The  young  man  was  about  to  express  his  thanks 
when  the  father  stopped  him  with — 

"No,  no,  Geoffy;  you've  got  to  study  hard  enough 
to  pay  for  this.  If  I  set  you  up  in  the  world  before 
you  are  twenty-one,  you've  got  to  promise  to  keep  up 
the  Hunter  name  at  the  bar  of  the  circuit." 

"  I  will  try  my  best,  father,"  said  the  young  man, 
but  his  tone  did  not  presage  success. 

"  I  have  a  new  edition  of  Blackstone  that  I  pur- 
chased for  you  lately,"  said  the  father,  "  a  right  fine 
one,  too,  with  a  new  style  of  type,  and  the  most  keer- 
fully  edited  book  I  ever  looked  into.  It 's  a  Philadel- 
phia edition,  and  just  out.  You  may  begin  at  once. 
Come  over  every  Saturday  and  I'll  put  you  through  a 
set  of  questions,  and  have  you  ready  for  the  County 
Court  in  a  year  at  most." 

Awhile  longer  the  two  men  sat  together  —  father 
and  son :  the  one  old  and  rough,  scarred  with  many  a 
battle  with  the  world,  yet  warm  and  tender-hearted  to 
his  boy,  as  a  mother  to  her  babe.  He  was  still  a 
child  to  those  fond  old  eyes.  And  the  son,  young, 
unskilled,  unscathed  by  conflict  with  the  world,  and 
careless  what  it  had  in  store  for  him. 

Along  the  covered  way  to  the  house,  and  into  the 
bright  lighted  parlor,  they  went  together. 

And  so  the  plantation  known  as  Lovett  Lodge,  five 
miles  from  Perham  by  the  river  road,  and  the  girl 
"Toinette,"  with  sundry  other  "chattels-real,"  passed 
into  the  hands  of  the  young  master,  Geoffrey  Hunter, 
Esq.,  from  his  father,  Manuel  Hunter — a  Christmas 
Gift,  princely  and  unconditioned. 


CHAPTER    II. 

"CHRISTMAS      gift!" 

THE  next  day  was  Christmas ;  Christmas  at  the 
Great  House,  in  which  Manuel  Hunter  lived — 
"The  Hunter  Home,"  as  he  had  jocosely  named  the 
plantation  years  before. 

As  the  gray  dawn  crept  over  the  hill  tops,  a  motley 
crew  of  almost  every  age  and  shade  of  color  came 
thronging  up  from  from  the  row  of  low,  whitewashed 
huts,  which  constituted  the  servants'  quarters,  to  the 
Great  House.  It  was  the  modern  slave's  saturnalia — 
the  heathen  festival  rebaptized  and  christened — the  week 
whose  license  was  a  ludicrous  mimicry  of  freedom,  with 
an  undertone  of  sadness,  like  the  refrain  of  a  plantation 
melody.  Clad  in  their  Sunday's  best,  they  thronged 
the  piazza  and  hall  of  the  House,  and  besieged  with 
uproarious  freedom  the  room  where  "  Ole  Master  "  slept ; 
and  then,  by  turns,  that  of  every  other  member  of  the 
household. 

"Christmas  Gif,  Mas'r  Manuel"!  "Christmas  Gif"! 
"  Christmas  Gif" !  was  shouted,  again  and  again,  in 
every  variety  of  tone,  from  the  shrill  treble  of  child- 
hood to  the  trembling  huskiness  of  age.  Male  and 
female  vied  with  each  other  in  increasing  the  clamor. 

Meantime  the  old  man  had  risen  and  was  calling 
for  his  body-servant. 

"  Dick  I    O  Dick !  "   he   shouted,  well   knowing  that 


"  CHRIS TMA  S  GIFT  !"  19 

Dick  had  gone,  with  Manuel  Hunter's  pass  in  his  pocket, 
to  a  plantation  several  miles  distant,  to  spend  the  Christ- 
mas. "  O  Dick !  "  he  exclaimed  again,  angrily ;  and 
then  opening  the  door,  half-clad  as  he  was,  he  called 
for  him  again. 

"  Where  has  that  black  rascal  gone  ?     I  say,  Dick !  " 

His  appearance  was  the  signal  for  renewed  vocifera- 
tions. 

"  Christmas  Gif !  Christmas  Gif,  mas'r  !  De  Lor' 
bress  him!  H'm  jus  as  spry  's  if  he  was  n't  gwine  on 
seventy.  H'm  '11  live  to  keep  many  a  rogue  from 
kissin'  the  widder  yit !  Ki !  no  danger  ennybody 
dancin'  on  nuffin  while  Mas'r  Manwel  lives !  Nebber 
see  a  hangin*  agin  !  De  sheriff's  dun  got  so  he  dunno 
how  tu  tie  de  knot !  It 's  gone  out  of  fashion  on  de 
surcutes  eber  sense  Mas'r  Manwel  clar  de  man  fur 
killin'  tree  't  wonst !  Lor',  Lor,'  't  use  to  be  just  as 
common  puttin'  hemp  roun'  a  gemman's  neck  as  roun' 
a  cotting  bale,  'fore  Mas'r  Manwel's  time,  I  'members ! 
/  do !  "  said  an  old  man,  with  a  bald  crown  surrounded 
by  pads  of  snowy  wool,  who  leaned  upon  a  staff,  and 
seemed  to  be  regarded  as  a  sort  of  chief  among  them. 

They  knew  the  weak  point  of  the  old  man,  his 
repute  as  a  criminal  lawyer,  and  with  the  slave's  deft 
flattery  struck  it  at  once,  and  bows  and  cheers,  waving 
hats,  handkerchiefs  and  aprons^  greeted  the  master  of 
threescore  slaves. 

"Is  that  you,  Martin.?  How  d'ye,  old  man,"  said 
the  master.  "  Why,  you  're  as  peart  as  if  you  were  n't 
more  'n  twenty-five  this  momin'.  You'll  help  me,  won't 
you,  Marty,  boy,  if  that  fellow  Dick  has  run  away  ?     He 


20  ^  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

ought  tu  hev  twenty  licks  for  it.  How  d'ye,  boys? 
How  d'ye,  gals?  My  shoes,  Martin,  and  stockings. 
Where  can  that  black  rascal  hev  put  'em .?  " 

Old  Martin  was  down  upon  his  knees  at  once,  and 
the  crowd  poured  into  the  room,  each  one  prying  into 
nooks  and  corners  after  the  master's  lost  clothing, 
while  he  kept  on,  half  petulantly,  half  humorously, 
scolding  Dick  and  saying  something  pleasant  to  every 
one  whose  eye  he  caught,  alternately. 

At  length  old  Martin  found  one  of  the  shoes  under 
the  bed,  and  carefully  shaking  it,  out  rolled  a  silver 
dollar,  which  he  instantly  appropriated,  with  a  whoop 
of  delight  and  a  mocking  "  Sarvant,  sah,"  as  he  bowed 
and  scraped  to  his  master,  who  angrily  exclaimed : 

"  Here,  you  old  rascal,  are  you  going  to  rob  me  .'*  " 

"Hi!  yah!  yah!"  laughed  the  old  negro,  still 
clutching  the  silver,  "Mas'r  ought  ter  hev  a  better 
pus  nor  dat  ter  keep  the  shiners  in,  else  niggas  steal 
'em,  shore  !  " 

It  seemed  as  if  the  old  man's  money  was  every- 
where except  in  its  proper  place,  his  purse.  Each 
stocking  held  a  quarter ;  and  wnen  his  vest  was  handed 
to  him  he  put  both  his  hands  through  the  arm-holes, 
in  the  old-fashioned  way  of  putting  on  that  garment, 
and,  by  some  unaccountable  carelessness  in  swinging 
it  over  his  head,  scattered  dimes  and  half-dimes  about 
the  room  in  a  style  that  produced  the  utmost  confu- 
sion among  the  dusky  rabble. 

"  Git  out,  you  rascals !  "  shouted  the  old  man, 
stamping  his  feet  in  pretended  rage. 

"  Here,  Martin,  give  me  your  cane  while  I  beat  the 


'^  CHRISTMAS  GIFT!''  21 

knaves.  There !  there !  "  he  added,  as  all  but  old  Martin 
left  the  room,  and  he  stood,  hat  in  hand,  before  him, 
"  go  wake  up  young  Mas'r  Geoffrey.  Here,  Marty, 
boy,  is  his  Christmas  Gift  for  him.  You  may  take  it 
to  him.  I  've  given  him  the  Lovett  place,  and  put  you 
in  to  take  care  of  him.  You  won't  let  him  disgrace 
the  old  name,  will  you,  Martin }  " 

"  'Deed  I  won't,  sah,"  replied  the  old  slave,  as  he 
took  the  bundle  of  papers,  and  with  a  very  conse- 
quential air  marched  at  the  head  of  the  chattering 
troop  toward  young  master's  room. 

Arriving  at  Geoffrey's  door  the  clamor  was  renewed, 
but  was  soon  hushed  by  the  barking  of  a  large  New- 
foundland dog,  which  the  young  master  had  brought 
home  on  his  return  from  college,  and  who  had  a  de- 
cided aversion  to  the  dusky  inhabitants  of  the  plantation, 
though  himself  as  highly  "  cullud  "  as  any  of  them. 

Leon  had  been  growling  his  dissent  to  the  riotous 
proceedings  of  the  morning  for  some  time.  He  regarded 
himself  as  the  special  guardian  of  Geoffrey,  and  always 
shared  his  room.  Now,  as  the  clattering  feet  came  up 
the  stairs  and  the  servants  clustered  about  the  door- 
way, shouting  their  boisterous  greeting,  he  burst  out 
into  a  full-grown,  threatening,  imperative  bark. 

"  Down,  Leon !  nobody  will  hurt  either  of  us,"  said 
his  master,  "  be  quiet,  I  say !  " 

"  Christmas  Gif !  Christmas  Gif ! "  shouted  the  ser- 
vants. 

"  Thank  you,  boys,  thank  you ;  but  don't  disturb 
me  now.  I'll  give  you  some  tricks  by-and-by,"  said 
Geoffrey,  lazily. 


22  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

When  the  clamor  subsided,  old  Martin,  rapping 
deferentially  upon  the  door,  said : 

"  Please,  sah,  Mas'r  Manwel  guv  me  suthin',  sah, 
as  I  was  to  giv  you,  sah,  for  your  Christmas  Gif." 

"  Well,  come  in,"  said  Geoffrey.  "  Down,  Leon  !  " 
as  the  old  man  opened  the  door  and  walked  in,  care- 
fully leaving  it  ajar  for  the  accommodation  of  his 
fellow-servants,  who  stood  without,  or  perhaps  to  facil- 
itate retreat  in  case  of  need. 

"  Sarvant,  sah,"  said  the  old  man,  bending  his 
snowy  head,  with  a  princely  grace,  to  the  young  mas- 
ter, who  sat  up  in  bed  and  held  out  his  hand  for  the 
packet,  and  glancing  dubiously  at  the  still  growling 
Leon. 

"  Ah !  I  see,"  said  the  son,  "  the  title-deeds  of 
Lovett  Lodge,  with  bill  of  sale  of  twelve  hands  and 
house  servants,  including  you  too,  Uncle  Martin.  My 
father  is  very  kind,  indeed.  I  did  not  suppose  he 
could  spare  you." 

"  Mas'r  Manwel  says  he  hed  to  sen'  ole  Martin  to 
tak'  keer  ov  de  res',  an'  see  that  young  Mas  Geoff 
'have  himself,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  chuckle. 

"  You  and  Hulda  shall  have  the  overseer's  house 
then ;  and  between  us  we  will  do  his  work,  for  I  won't 
have  one  of  that  tribe  on  the  place,"  replied  Geoffrey. 

"  It 's  a  right  good  plantation,"  said  Martin,  "  with 
a  heap  of  good  Ian',  an'  if  ye  jes*  let  ole  Martin  hev 
his  way,  dat  force  '11  make  a  power  o'  corn  an'  right 
smart  uv  terbaccer." 

"  Well,  that  will  do,  Martin.  How  d'  ye,  boys  }  I'll 
be    down    to    the    storehouse    after    breakfast    and    see 


''CHRISTMAS  GIFT !"  23 

if  I  can  find  some  Christmas  gifts  for  you,"  said  Geof- 
Orey. 

The  old  "uncle,"  with  repeated  bows  and  "  Mornin*, 
^ah's,"  backed  out  of  the  room,  like  an  inferior  man- 
darin ducking  to  one  of  higher  grade,  carefully  closed 
the  door  and  with  his  friends  went  to  salute  the  other 
members  of  the  family,  and  then  dispersed  to  the 
amusements  of  the  Christmas  time — the  one  week  out 
of  fifty-two  in  which  they  caught  a  far-off  glimpse  of 
freedom,  the  one  thing  that  kept  alive  their  faith  in 
the  good  time  coming,  the  oft-predicted  "Jubilee." 

Geoffrey  Hunter  laid  his  head  back  upon  his  pil- 
low and  wandered  off  into  a  quiet  reverie,  of  which 
himself  and  his  possessions  formed,  the  subject  matter. 
He  was  now  a  man.  The  careless  college  life,  with  its 
aimless  rambling  vacations,  was  over.  He  appreciated 
the  force  of  "  ;;?^z/;;z "  and  "//^?^w,"  as  applied  to  realty. 
On  the  threshold  of  life  he  was  independent,  yes,  rich — 
one  of  the  solid  men  of  the  country;  one  of  the  aris- 
tocracy of  the  great  South,  securely  entrenched  behind 
land  and  slaves,  the  two  great  bulwarks  of  respecta- 
bility. These,  if  managed  with  prudence,  would  yield 
him  a  constantly  increasing  income,  and  as  he  grew 
older  make  his  position  still  more  secure.  He  would 
take  care  of  it.  He  was  not  extravagant  nor,  as  he 
assured  himself,  foolish.  With  his  books,  his  music, 
and  his  pipe,  he  pictured  to  himself  a  quiet  country 
life — independent,  easy,  honorable. 

What  would  he  do  ?  What  was  his  ambition .?  He 
had  none.  Why  should  he  toil,  as  his  father  had  done, 
until   inaction  was   unbearable.''      Circumstances  would 


24  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

do  for  him  all  that  he  desired.  He  had  only  to  stand 
and  wait.  Inaction  was  his  best  card,  sure  to  win,  and 
no  risk.  Enjoyment  was  his  aim.  He  would,  there- 
fore, be  temperate,  frugal,  careful  of  his  tastes  and 
habits,  lest  he  should  impair  his  power  of  enjoying  the 
good  things  fortune  offered  him.  He  would  be  a  man, 
not  a  beast;  a  philosopher,  not  a  fool;  and,  accordingly, 
would  seek  only  cultivated  and  refining  pleasures,  not 
bestial  ones. 

And  who  would  enjoy  these  pleasures  with  him.^ 
The  full  lip,  sensuous  and  frank,  curled  into  an  un- 
wonted sneer,  and  a  half  flush  spread  over  his  cheek 
as  the  thought  crossed  his  mind.  It  might  have  been. 
It  could  not  be  a^ain.  He  had  told  his  father  the 
night  before  that  he  had  no  desire  to  be  the  slave  of 
any  woman.  He  meant  it.  When  his  mother  died,  his 
faith  in  womanhood  died  too.     So  he  said. 

A  boyish  disappointment  rankled  in  his  memory. 
When  scarce  a  man  he  had  thought  he  loved,  and 
had  avowed  his  attachment  to,  a  woman  much  older 
than  himself.  Instead  of  treating  with  respect  the 
passionate  avowal  of  the  young  heart,  and  saving  the 
self  esteem  of  the  impetuous  lad,  she  had  laughed  at 
his  youth  and  driven  him  into  the  cynicism  which  he 
had  maintained  so  long  that  it  had  become  half  real. 
He  had  determined  to  abjure  women  and  prided  him- 
self on  being  a  woman-hater.  In  the  expressive  phrase 
of  his  vernacular  he  said  he  had  "  no  use  for  them." 
He  half  disliked  his  sisters  and  his  aunt.  There  were 
but  three  women  among  his  slaves  till  he  added  that 
fly-about   creature   last   night.      What   did   he   do   that 


"  CHRIS  TMA  S  GIFT  I "  25 

for  ?  He  did  not  know.  He  half  wished  they  were  all 
men.  But  one  thing  was  sure,  no  woman  should  be 
mistress  in  his  house.  His  servants  should  owe  no 
divided  allegiance  if  he  lived  to  be  four-score;  that 
was  settled.  The  mouth  shut  quietly  and  firmly,  the 
brow  drooped,  the  eyes  half  closed.  There  was  an 
iron  will  about  the  young  nabob. 

Cool,  cautious,  selfish,  ambitious  only  for  enjoy- 
ment, and  having  in  the  very  refinement  of  this  desire 
a  safeguard  against  degrading  pleasures,  what  will  be 
his  life  "i 

As  he  went  down  to  breakfast  Geoffrey  Hunter 
met  his  new  chattel,  Toinette.  She  was  carrying  a 
server  to  the  dining-room,  for  her  mother  was  the 
cook  at  the  Hunter  Home,  renowned  for  skill  through- 
out the  country  side. 

"  Christmas  Gif,  Mass  Geoff,"  said  the  handmaiden, 
dropping  a  courtesy  under  the  server  balanced  on 
her  head. 

"What  do  you  want  for  your  Christmas,  Toinette  ? " 

"A  new  dress  and  a  white  apron,  if  you  please, 
sir,"  answered   the   girl,  pertly. 

Geoffrey  smiled. 

"I  will  give  you  that,"  he  said,  "and  the  greatest 
Christmas  you  ever  had,  beside." 

The  look  of  childish  pleasure  on  her  face  faded 
into  wonder  as  she  gazed  up  at  his  and  followed  him 
into  the  dining-room  without  further  question. 

No  one  else  of  the  family  had  as  yet  answered  the 
bell.  He  leaned  against  the  mantel  and  watched  the 
girl,  as  with  an  absent  manner  she  removed  the  differ- 


.26  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

ent  dishes  from  tlie  tray  and  placed  them  on  the  table. 
He  remembered  his  father's  words,  "  She  '11  be  a  likely 
gal  some  day,"  There  could  be  no  doubt  of  that,  and 
quite  unconsciously  he  began  to  estimate  the  market 
value  of  this  piece  of  humanity  a  few  years  later,  when 
Time  should  have  ripened  her  charms,  and  developed 
her  fine  points. 

He  was  not  sordid  or  unfeeling.  He  was  simply 
speculating  on  the  probable  future  value  of  his  newly 
acquired  possession,  as  the  jockey  calculates  the 
''come  out"  of  a  colt,  or  the  milkmaid  counts  the 
eggs  which  exist  only  in  expectancy.  He  did  not 
concern  himself  with  the  humanity  or  womanhood 
of  Toinette.  Much  less  did  he  consider  her  moral 
relations  with  himself,  humanity  or  God.  The  law 
made  her  his  slave,  and  he  was  troubled  with  nothing 
beyond.  It  was  the  chattel,  not  the  human  being,  of 
which  he  thought.  ^'' Ho7no  non  persona"  is  the  defini- 
tion which  the  law  gives  to  the  status  of  the  slave, 
and  the  hater  of  slavery  cannot  wonder  that  the 
master  should  contemplate  only  the  legal  relation.  It 
was  but  natural.  True,  Toinette  was  not  so  dark  as 
many  of  the  race  who  are  counted  the  descendants  of 
the  unfortunate  Ham  but  her  mother  was — well,  a 
shade  darker  than  she;  and  the  rule  of  the  law  is 
inflexible  partus  sequitur  ventrem.  And  so  Toinette 
was  a  slave,  legally  and  properly,  though  scarcely  of 
darker  integument  than  her  new  master,  and  perhaps 
of  no  meaner  ancestry,  paternally. 

He    took    the    bill    of   sale    from    his    pocket,  and 
read : 


"  CHRISTMA S  GIFT /  "  27 

"Yellow  girl,  Toinette,  daughter  of  Mabel,  four- 
teen years  old,  regular  featured,  bright  complexioned." 

That  was  the  description,  and  Geoffrey  Hunter 
concluded  that  ''the  fly-about  Toinette,"  as  he  had 
termed  her,  "would  be  a  fine  article,  worth  a  pretty 
penny  in  a  few  years,"  as  his  father  had  said.  Just 
then  came  to  his  ears  the  voice  of  the  chattel,  as  she 
advanced  through  the  long  hall,  bringing  something 
from  the  kitchen  beyond.  She  had  forgotten  her  per- 
plexity, and  was  singing,  in  very  lorgetfulness,  that 
noble  Christmas  carol, 

"  Brightest  and  best  of  the  sons  of  the  morning." 

There  was  nothing  ignoble  in  the  voice.  Rich  and 
full  it  pulsed  along  the  notes  of  this  grand  old  anthem, 
wild  and  free.  "A  fine  voice"  he  thought,  as  uncon- 
sciously he  hummed  the  air  himself. 

As  she  entered  the  doorway  her  singing  ceased, 
and  she  advanced  to  the  table. 

"Where  did  you  learn  that  song,  Toinette,"  asked 
Geoffrey. 

"Of  Miss  Ruthy,  sir,"  answered  Toinette,  without 
interrupting  her  work. 

"  Have  you  guessed  what  is  the  other  Christmas 
Gift  I  am  to  let  you  have.?"  he   asked. 

"La,  no,  sir,  dun  forgot  all  'bout  it.  I  reckon 
you  'se  jis  foolin  me,"  she  said,  laughingly. 

"No,"  said  he,  "you  are  going  to  have  a  new 
master." 

The  plate  fell  from  the  young  girl's  hand,  the  color 
fled  from  her  cheeks,  and  she  gasped,  "  Is  dat  so .? " 


28  A  ROYAL  gentleman: 

"Yes,  indeed  it  is.  Father  sold  you  yesterday/' 
he  answered. 

"And   mammy?"   asked  Toinette. 

"No,  he  could  not  spare  her,"  Geoffrey  replied. 

The  girl's  agony  was  painful  to  witness.  He  did 
not  enjoy  the  scene,  and  he  hated  anything  he  did 
not  enjoy.  So  he  made  haste  to  end  it,  by  saying, 
■'But  you  have  not  asked  who  bought  you,  yet." 

The  30und  of  his  voice  seemed  to  have  awakened 
the  girl  from  a  sort  of  trance,  into  which  she  had 
fallen.  Quick  as  thought  she  was  down  before  him, 
clasping  his  knees,  and  crying  out: 

"Don't,  don't.  Mass  Geoffrey,  don't  let  'em  sell 
me  'way  from  mammy !  Don't  let  'em  take  me  'way  \ 
I  '11  work.  Mass  Geoffrey,  arly  an'  late !  I  won't  never 
be  naughty  !  No,  I  won't !  Pore  mammy  !  Pore  mam- 
my !  'Twould  kill  her,  Mas  'r  Geoffrey !  Think  of  yer 
own  mammy;  her  that  learned  me  the  pretty  songs, 
and  was  kind  to  Toinette ;  that  said  she  loved  her  most 
as  well  as  if  she  was  her  own  gal !  I  wa  'n  't  never  bad 
to  Miss  Ruthy,  Mass  'r  Geoffrey,"  and  she  raised  her 
face,  pallid  with  fright,  and  with  the  tears  streaming 
down  it — the  thick  brown  hair  falling  back  from  the 
fair  broad  brow — and  looked  at  him  beseechingly. 

^'  Don't,  Mass  Geoffrey,  for  yer  mudder's  sake,  and 
the  good  Lord's  sake!  Don't  let  'em  take  me  'way!" 
His  eyes  moistened  at  this  impetuous  appeal,  and  his 
voice  was  a  little  uncertain  too,  as  he  said,  quickly: 

"  I  won't,  Toinette,  I  won't.  I  have  bought  you 
myself.  I  am  your  new  master.  I  am  going  to  live  at 
Lovett   Lodge,  and   you  can    come  and   see  Mabel   as 


"  CHRIS  TMA  S  GIF r  /  "  29 

often  as  you  wish.  Father  gave  you  to  me  for  a 
Christmas  gift.  There,  there !  Go  now."  The  chattel 
was  kissing  his  hands,  and  exclaiming  through  her 
tears, 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you !  God  bless  you,  Massa 
Geoffrey." 

Somehow  the  master  seemed  to  have  overstepped 
the  legal  definition,  and  confounded  the  "  Homo  "  with 
the  "  Persona,"  the  chattel  with  the  child.  Very  plain 
distinctions  are  sometimes  difficult  to  maintain. 


CHAPTER    III. 

MABEL. 

WHEN  Toinette  returned  to  the  kitchen  one  or 
two  of  the  other  servants  were  there  talking 
of  their  holiday  pleasures,  so  she  said  nothing  to  old 
Mabel  of  her  change  of  masters.  Her  agitation,  how- 
ever, did  not  escape  the  sharp  eye  of  the  old  slave 
woman.  There  is  no  Lavater  in  the  world  who  can 
compare,  as  a  skillful  physiognomist,  with  an  observing 
slave. 

"  What  was  the  matter  in  yon  " — with  a  motion 
of  the  head  toward  the  great  house — "  this  morning, 
Toinette .'' "  said  her  mother  w^hen  the  breakfast  was 
over,  and  she  was  preparing  for  the  great  dinner 
which  was  to  be  served  at  the  Hunter  Home  that  even- 
ing, as  the  Southern  people  always  term  the  after- 
noon. 

"  Mas'r  Geoffrey  scared  me,  mammy — that's  all," 
answered  Toinette,   carelessly. 

"How.^"  demanded  the  mother  sharply. 

"  He  told  me  I  had  got  a  new  master  now,  and 
I  thought  I  had  been  sold  away  from  you,  mammy." 

"  No  fear  of  that,'*  said  Mabel.  "  Miss  Ruthy 
told  me  you  should  n't  ever  be  sold  away  from  me, 
an'  Mas'r  Manwell  sed  de  same,  an'  promise  Miss 
Ruthy    on    her    dyin'    bed    dat    neither    on    us    should 


MABEL.  31 

ever  be  parted  with,  less  we  's  sot  free,  as  we  sartin 
should  be  when  he  died, — so  do  n't  hev  no  trouble 
on  dat  score,  chile." 

"  No,  mammy.  Mas'r  Geoffrey  tole  me  afterward 
that  I  was  n't  sole  away,  but  jes  made  a  Christmas 
gif  to  him,"  said  Toinette. 

"  A  Christmas  gift  to  Geoffrey  Hunter !  "  said  Mabel 
incredulously. 

"Yes,"  Toinette  hastened  to  say;  "but  he  is  go- 
ing to  live  on  the  Lovett  place,  and  I  can  come  and 
see  you  when  I  choose." 

"  No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  said  her  mother,  with  a 
sneer.  "  Ah,  chile,  chile,  better  you  had  never  been 
born.  O  God !  O  God !  canst  thou  not  leave  me 
this  one  !  " 

She  sat  down  upon  the  floor  of  the  kitchen,  pulled 
the  white  turban  from  her  head,  and  weaving  back  and 
forth,  moaned  piteously.  With  her  eyes  closed,  her 
long,  white  hair  waving  in  the  chill  winter  wind,  her 
tall  form  swaying  to  and  fro,  and  muttering  brokenly, 
it  is  no  wonder  that  the  superstitious  servants  fled  in 
affright,  declaring  that  iVunt  Mabel  was  making  charms 
to  witch  somebody.  Toinette  having  tried  in  vain  to 
arouse  and  console  her  mother  fled  with  the  other  ser- 
vants in  terror. 

In  an  hour  or  two  the  report  of  Aunt  Mabel's 
condition  reached  Miss  Lucy,  Geoffrey's  aunt,  who 
straightway  repaired  to  the  kitchen ;  having  in  constant 
remembrance  the  fact  that  the  grand  dinner  was  de- 
pendent solely  upon  the  exertions  of  the  old  cook. 
Entering   the   hut  which    served    the    princely   Hunters 


32  -1   ROYAL  GEN-TLEMAN, 

for  a  kitchen,  she  beheld  Aunt  Mabel  squatted  on  the 
ground  befare  the  fire,  surrounded  by  the  implements 
of  cookery,  still  weaving  to  and  fro,  and  continu- 
ing the  sing-song  utterances  which  had  been  taken  for 
incantations.  And  indeed  there  was  something  truly 
fearful  in  the  thin,  spare  figure,  the  stern,  sad  face,  of 
old  parchment  hue,  and  the  heaving  masses  of  long 
white  hair,  which  floated  unconfined  about  her  head. 
Allied  to  the  race  whose  curse  she  bore,  remotely,  if  at 
all.  Aunt  Mabel  was  a  woman  who  showed  unmistak- 
able marks  of  terrible  suffering  and  all  but  invincible 
fortitude.  The  tall  figure  was  unbowed,  and  the  vigor 
of  maturity  rather  than  the  weakness  and  indecision  of 
age  characterized  her  movements.  It  was  evident  that 
the  deep  furrows  on  her  brow  and  the  mass  of  white  ' 
hair  which  hung  upon  her  shoulders  were  the  result 
of  sorrow  and  affliction,  not  of  years.  The  mouth 
whose  nether  lip  had  not  lost  its  fullness,  even  amid 
the  relaxation  of  overwhelming  calamity,  yet  bore  evi- 
dence of  unusual  firmness. 

"  What  's  all  this  fuss  about,  gal .?  "  was  the  greet- 
ing of  Miss  Lucy. 

Old  Mabel,  for  the  first  time,  ceased  her  crooning, 
and  turned  sharply  on  the  intruder.  Her  brow  gath- 
ered a  severe  expression,  and  her  face  darkened  with 
wrath. 

"Is  it  true.  Miss  Lucy.^"  she  said  almost  fiercely. 
"Ye  know,  an'  ye  needn't  try  to  fool  old  Mabel.  Is 
it  true  .^  Has  Manwell  Hunter " — she  had  forgotten 
the  mastership  in  her  agony  and  wrath — "  sole  my  baby, 
my  darlin',   my  las'  one,  that  he  promised  Miss  Ruthy 


OLD    MABEL. 

•  She  sat  down  on  the  floor  of  the  kitchen, pulled  the  white  turban  from  her  head 
and  moving  back  and  forth,  moaned  piteous  ly.'  —p.  32. 


MABEL.  33 

on  her  dyin'  bed  should  never  be  sole,  but  stay  wid 
de  family  till  he  died?  He  certain  sed  dat,  ef  I'd  take 
keer  o'  Miss  Ruthy,  an'  I  did — Toinette  an'  me  nussed 
her  like  a  baby.  An'  Toinette  learned  to  read — Miss 
Ruthy  holp  her,  though  'twas  agin  the  law — so  that  she 
might  hear  the  blessed  Gospel  an'  the  Psalms,  when 
her  own  darters  wud  be  gone  for  months,  Mass'r  Man- 
well  on  the  circuit,  an'  young  Mass'r  Geoff  away  to 
college,  ez  he'  s  allers  been  nigh  about.  An'  he  prom- 
ised atterwards — on'y  the  very  day  afore  Miss  Ruthy 
died,  when  she  was  a  beggin'  him  to  set  us  free  right 
away,  an'  he  '11  owed  he  would  ef  't  was  n't  for  the  law 
— he  promised  then  that  Toinette  nor  me  should  n't 
never  be  sold,  he  did,  an'  that  he  'd  put  us  in  his  will, 
so  'z  we  'd  both  be  sot  free  as  soon  as  ever  he  died, 
which  he  'llowed  wouldn't  be  long  no  way." 

"  Law,  gal,  there  's  no  use  to  take  on  so.  Toi- 
nette ain't  sold — only  given  to  Geoffrey  for  a  Christ- 
mas. He  '11  never  take  her  away.  What  does  he 
want  of  her .?  "  answered  Miss  Lucy. 

"  Aye,"  broke  in  old  Mabel,  springing  to  her  feet, 
*^  what  does  he  want  of  my  gal .''  What  did  my  young 
master  want  of  Mabel  when  she  was  young  and  hand- 
some.? Wlien  her  cheek  was  'most  as  fair  an'  her  eye 
as  bright  an'  her  step  as  nimble  as  Toinette 's  .-*  Does 
you  know,  Miss  Lucy .?  Mabel's  cheek  was  n't  holler 
then,  nor  her  hair  bleached.  What  made  it  .'*  There 
was  three  of  'em  and  dey  's  all  gone,  Tc'nette  was  de 
las'  one.  I  ought  to  hev  killed  'em  when  der  lives  was 
young  an'  der  souls  was  white  an'  pure.  God  forgive 
me  that  I  did  n't.     But  I  loved  'em,  Miss  Lucy,  an'  I 


34  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

hoped.     An'  now  you  come  an'  ax  me  what  dey  want 
of  my  Toinette  !  " 

The  well-kempt  mistress  shrank  from  the  uplifted 
finger,  flashing  eyes,  and  scathing  tongue  of  the  aroused 
old  slave-woman,  with  scarcely  less  of  terror  than  the 
servants  had  previously  manifested. 

"  What  an  awful  wicked  old  creature  i  "  she  mut- 
tered, as  she  trotted  back  to  the  house,  glancing  over 
her  shoulder  half-fearfully  as  she  spoke.  Then  she 
remembered  she  had  said  nothing  to  Mabel  about  the 
dinner,  which  had  been  the  object  of  her  visit  to  the 
kitchen,  and,  after  hesitating  a  moment,  she  returned. 
Seeing  that  Mabel  had  resumed  her  old  position,  she 
gathered  courage  and  spoke  as  a  mistress  should, 
sharply  and  peremptorily. 

"  Mabel,  we  will  have  dinner  at  half-past  one. 
There  will  be  at  least  ten,  and  you  had  better  set 
about  getting  it  ready." 

"  Ef  't  was  only  not  de  las'  one  !  "  muttered  the  grim 
presence  on  the  hearth,  with  a  fierce  side-look  from 
under  her  close-bent  brows  which  sent  the  blood  back 
to  her  mistress's  heart  with  renewed  terror. 

"Horrid  old  thing!"  said  Miss  Lucy,  fleeing  again 
to  the  house.  "  I  do  believe  she  would  poison  us  all. 
I  shall  be  quite  afraid  to  eat  anything  after  this.  Who 
ever  saw  such  an  ungrateful  creature .?  After  being  so 
indulged  and  having  her  own  way  in  everything,  too. 
But  law,  it's  just  like  these  niggers !  "  and  the  good 
lady  arranged  her  collar  at  the  parlor  glass,  and  sat 
down  to  wait  for  dinner  and  the  diners. 

Mabel  watched  her  as   she   retreated    to   the   house. 


MABEL.  35 

and  then,  as  if  a  new  thought  had  struck  her,  arose  and 
marched  at  once  up  the  latticed  walk  which  led  from 
the  house  to  Squire  Hunter's  office,  along  it  to  the  door, 
and,  opening  this  without  ceremony,  walked  up  to  the 
table  where  her  master  sat,  and,  looking  him  straight  in 
the  eyes  while  a  deep  fire  burned  in  her  own,  she  ex- 
claimed : 

"Is  it  true  ?  Hev  ye  sole  my  gal,  my  baby,  my 
Toinette  ?  " 

"  Sho,  sho,  Auntie,"  said  the  old  attorney,  fussily, 
"don't  be  so  put  out!  Sold  Toinette?  No  more  I 
hain't !  Jes'  made  a  present  of  her  to  Geoffrey.  You 
know  the  boy  is  lonely  out  at  the  Lovett  place,  with 
nobody  but  old  Maggie  in  the  house,  an'  all  old  folks 
on  the  plantation,  too;  an'  no  wonder  either." 

"  Did  n't  you  promise  the  blessed  saint  Miss  Ruthy 
on  her  dyin'  bed  that  we  shouldn't  ever  be  separated, 
and  that  we  should  both  be  sot  free  when  you  died,  if 
not  afore .''  "  she  asked. 

"  Law,  yes,  child !  "  he  replied,  "  but  do  n't  take  on 
so ;  I  forgot  all  about  that ;  I  did  certain,  Auntie,  or  I 
wouldn't  hev  let  him  have  her  though  he  did  ask  me, 
so  I  wouldn't.  But,  law,  gal,  he  '11  be  tired  of  his  bar- 
gain and  want  me  to  rue,  in  a  week.  He  '11  be  glad  to 
send  her  back  to  you  to  get  rid  of  her  by  that  time. 
Eh,  gal }  "   and  he  attempted  an   unsuccessful  chuckle. 

"  Yes,  he  '11  get  tired  of  her  some  time  an'  send  her 
— not  to  her  old  mammy,  but  to  de  auction  block ! 
Oh,  Mas'r  Manwell,  what  '11  ye  tell  Miss  Ruthy  when 
she  axes  ye'  bout  little  Toinette,  that  she  loved  most 
like  her  own  child  1  "  said  the  old  woman,  solemnly. 


36  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

"  Pshaw,  pshaw,  gal,  you  're  foolish.  The  gal 's  well 
enough  off,  an'  would  hev  to  be  sold  or  hired  some 
time,"  he  said. 

"  Not  ef  you  hed  kep'  your  promise  to  the  dead," 
broke  in  the  old  woman. 

"That's  neither  here  nor  there,  now,"  he  said,  pet- 
tishly. "  I  have  given  a  bill  of  sale  to  Geoffrey,  and 
she  's  his  property  now.  If  I  've  broken  my  word,  it  's 
the  worse  for  me.  But  I  '11  think  of  it  w^hen  he  comes  in 
again,  and  see  if  he  won't  exchange  her  for  some  other  gal." 

"He  won't  do  it,  Manwell  Hunter,"  she  replied;  "I 
knows  the  Hunter  blood  too  well.  Ef  he 's  set  his 
heart  on  havin'  the  gal,  the  ole  debble  hisself  couldn't 
get  him  to  turn  loose  his  hold  on  her." 

"Well,  v/ell,  I  don't  know;  she's  his  property  and 
not  mine.  I  've  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Go  away, 
gal,  go  way,  and  do  n't  bother  me.  There,"  said  he, 
handing  her  a  slip  of  paper,  on  which  he  had  hastily 
written  a  few  words,  "  give  that  to  Hendricks,  and 
he  '11  let  you  have  a  fine  calico  and  a  new  bonnet  be- 
sides your  regular  Christmas." 

Mabel  had  taken  the  paper,  evidently  thinking  it 
referred  to  the  matter  uppermost  in  her  mind,  but  as 
he  spoke  of  its  contents,  she  dropped  it  as  if  it 
burned  her  hand,  and  without  looking  up  walked  to 
the  door,  where,  turning  suddenly,  she  said  in  a  deep, 
low  voice : 

"  Manwell  Hunter,  may  de  Grod  above  do  to  you 
as  you  have  done  to  Mabel's  Toinette ;  little  Toinette, 
dat  Miss  Ruthy  loved  an'  you  forgot.  May  de  old 
Mas'r  forgit  you  forever !  " 


MABEL.  37 

She  closed  the  door  and  departed.  Manuel  Hun- 
ter shivered  in  his  great  arm-chair  before  the  blazing 
fire. 

There  was  no  dinner  at  the  great  house  for  the 
crowd  of  Christmas  friends  that  day.  It  was  a  thing 
unheard  of  in  the  model  menage  of  Manuel  Hunter; 
but  when  Miss  Lucy  went  to  the  kitchen  at  one 
o'clock,  to  give  some  trifling  directions  about  the  re- 
past which  should  have  been  served  some  thirty  min- 
utes later,  the  great  gaping  fireplace  was  cold,  pots 
and  kettles  were  scattered  around,  and  the  materials 
which  had  been  given  out  for  the  viands  were  still 
untouched. 

Amid  the  confusion,  Mabel  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen.  Miss  Lucy's  lungs  were  exerted  to  the  utmost 
shouting,  "  Mabel !  O,  Mabel !  " 

Her  patience  received  another  strain,  and  "  the 
ingratitude  of  these  niggers,"  was  duly  anathematized. 
Messengers  were  sent  hither  and  yon  among  the  ser- 
vants to  hunt  up  and  return  the  delinquent  under 
threats  of  various  penalties.  But  all  without  success. 
Old  Mabel  had  disappeared  from  the  possession  and 
control  of  Manuel  Hunter.  Another  cook  was  per- 
force extemporized  from  among  the  servants,  and 
two  hours  later  a  miserable  travesty  of  the  dinner 
expected  was  placed  upon  the  board  at  the  Hunter 
Home. 

All  this  annovance  and  discomfort  was  laid  to 
Geoffrey's  charge  by  his  disappointed  aunt  and  sisters, 
in  terms  which  did  not  tend  to  increase  his  desire  for 
their  society. 


38  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

"  It  was  all  owing  to  his  foolish  fancy  for  Toi- 
nette,"  they  said,  "  that  there  was  such  trouble  with 
old  Mabel.  He  was  so  selfish.  He  would  have  that 
good-for-nothing  yaller  gal,  if  everybody  went  without 
dinners  for  a  year.     It  was  just  like  him." 

Such  remarks  impaired  his  self-complacency.  He 
did  not  like  to  be  blamed  abstractly,  and  especially 
not  for  what  he  considered  to  be  a  mere  accident. 
So  when  pcre  Hunter  said  to  the  new  wearer  of  the 
toga  virilis,  after  ominous  fidgettings  and  stammerings, 
the  next  evening,  "  Geoffy,  son,  would  you  mind  ex- 
changing that  gal  Toinette  for  Mary's  Cely.?" 

The  young  ex-collegian  merely  smoked  a  little 
impatiently  and  said : 

"I  know  of  no  reason  why  I  should." 

"Well,  there  ain't  no  reason,  only  Mabel  takes  on 
so,"  replied  the  father. 

"  I  do  n't  intend  to  make  any  woman  my  mistress 
nor  allow  her  to  control  my  actions — least  of  all  a 
servant,"  said  the  son.  "  Toinette  will  be  as  well  off 
at  the  Lodge  as  here,  and  better,  too,  for  I  sha'n't 
expect  her  to  work  much.  I  am  not  a  fool,  and  though 
I  do  n't  intend  to  turn  speculator,  I  know  her  value. 
I  asked  for  the  girl  because  she  was  a  favorite  of 
ma's  and  a  sprightly  creature.  Now  that  you  have 
given  her  to  me  I  shall  keep  her  because  Aunt  Lucy 
and  my  sisters  have  raised  such  a  furore  over  my 
causing  old  Mabel's  pout,  and  so  spoiling  their  dinner." 

"  True,  true,  she 's  your  property,"  said  the  old 
man  with  a  tone  of  disappointment,  and  so  the  subject 
was  dropped. 


MABEL.  39 

It  had  been  Geoffrey's  intention  to  remain  at  the 
paternal  mansion  during  the  Christmas  week,  but  his 
annoyance  was  so  great  that  he  directed  his  body- 
servant,  Bob,  to  have  everything  in  readiness  to  return 
to  Lovett  Lodge  the  next  morning.  He  then  sent  for 
Toinette  and  bade  her  make  preparations  to  accompany 
him.  Seeing  that  the  girl's  face  was  clouded,  and 
divining  the  cause,  he  said : 

"  Do  n't  be  put  out  at  Aunt  Mabel's  huff.  She  feels 
badly  at  your  going  away,  no  doubt,  but  when  she 
fmds  how  much  easier  you  '11  live  at  the  Lodge  than 
here,  she  '11  be  glad  you  've  gone." 

Toinette  was  young  and  fond  of  novelty.  To  be 
the  property  of  Geoffrey,  the  son,  instead  of  Manuel, 
the  father,  was  by  no  means  a  terrible  thing  in  her 
eyes.  Her  alarm  on  learning  that  she  was  sold  was 
the  result  not  of  a  change  of  ownership,  but  of  fear 
of  removal  from  her  mother  and  acquaintances.  Her 
memories  of  Geoffrey  before  his  collegiate  days,  and 
during  vacations  since,  were  not  unpleasant.  He  had 
always  been  a  favorite  among  his  father's  servants,  and 
was  reported  by  the  hands  on  the  Lovett  place  to  be 
a  good,  kind  master,  and  especially  opposed  to  the 
cruel  regime  of  so  many  masters  and  overseers.  They 
even  reported  that  the  tobacco  crop  had  been  housed 
that  year  and  cured  in  fine  style  without  a  lick  being 
struck,  or  hardly  an  ill  word  being  uttered ;  that  they 
had  been  well  fed  and  fairly  worked.  Indeed,  she 
knew  that  very  many  of  both  sexes  who  had  con- 
trol of  their  own  hiring  had  applied  to  "Young 
Mass'    Geoff'    to    put    in    wid    him    for    de  nex'  year." 


40  A  HOYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

But    she    remembered    her    mother's    grief,  so  she  only 
said : 

"  Thank  you,  Mas'r  Geoffrey,  I  hope  we  '11  get  on 
well," — in  a  quick,  simple  manner.  Geoffrey  looked  at 
her  and  thought — as  he  would  of  a  thoroughbred  colt 
— fine  blood  there.  She  would  be  a  lady  if  she  wasn't 
a  nigger.  Yet  she  was  a  nigger.  He  knew  that,  and 
his  property,  too.  She  stood  fondling  old  Leon's  ear 
while  their  master  mused.  The  dog  had  become  very 
fond  of  the  young  girl  who  was  making  such  trouble 
to  others.     At  length  Geoffrey  said, 

"  But  I  promised  you  a  new  dress  and  apron, — I 
will  do  better;  there,"  handing  her  a  paper;  "is  an 
order  on  Hendricks  for  a  full  rig ;  dress,  shoes,  apron, 
and  other  toggery,  as  a  sailor  would  say.  Get  a  nice 
Sunday  suit,  and  never  mind  the  price.  Bob  will  go 
round  with  you." 
The  order  read : 

Messrs.  Hendricks  &  Son. — Please  furnish  my  girl  Toinette, 
the  bearer,  with  as  fine  an  outfit  as  your  stock  affords,  regardless 
of  cost,  allowing  her  to  select,  and  send  bill  by  Bob. 

Geoffrey   Hunter. 

"  If  I  choose  to  make  the  gal  a  doll  it 's  nobody's 
business.  She's  mine,"  said  he  to  himself,  as  Toinette 
went  out.  The  idea  seemed  to  strike  him  with  pecu- 
liar force.  He  would  dress  this  slave  girl  as  a  lady, 
and  people  should  count  it  among  the  eccentricities 
whicTi  already  they  attributed  to  him.  She  and  Leon 
should  be  his  pets.  People  should  not  say  he  did  not 
show  good  taste  in  his  selections.  The  idea  pleased 
him  wonderfully.       He  went  himself  the  next  morning 


MABEL.  41 

to  Hendricks  &  Son  to  see  that  his  order  was  not 
taken  with  a  limitation. 

Old  Mabel  did  not  come  back  to  the  kitchen  of 
Manuel  Hunter  during  the  Christmas,  and  all  search 
for  her  proved  unavailing.  Miss  Lucy  declared  that 
the  overseer  should  give  her  "twenty  licks"  for  every 
day  she  was  absent,  a  report  which  Manuel  Hunter  in- 
stantly negatived  upon,  hearing  it,  —  informing  Miss 
Lucy,  somewhat  sharply,  that  no  one  should  strike 
his  niggers,  except  by  his  direction.  He  asked  every 
morning  if  she  had  returned,  and  seemed  greatly  troubled 
when  answered  in  the  negative.  His  neighbors  said 
that  "he  sot  a  heap  by  that  ongrateful  old  nigger." 
The  servants  "  'llowed  he  was  afeard  he  'd  lose  de  bes' 
cook  in  de  State." 

Which  was  right.?  Was  it  the  loss  of  his  dinner  or 
the  loss  of  his  chattel  that  troubled  him,  or  had  con- 
science stripped  the  husk  of  mastership  from  his  soul 
and  impressed  upon  him  the  humanity  of  his  slave.'* 

It  was  strange,  but  he  made  no  threats,  offered  no 
rewards,  and,  in  short,  took  none  of  the  steps  a  master 
should  to  secure  the  recapture  of  a  runaway. 

4 


CHAPTER  IV. 

FROM    SIRE    TO    SON. 

AT  the  time  appointed,  greatly  to  the  surprise  of  the 
paternal  Hunter,  Geoffrey  started  for  his  new  plan- 
tation,— himself  and  the  driver,  Bob,  in  the  buggy  seat, 
and  on  the  oval  trunk  support  behind,  his  new  "  yaller 
gal"  Toinette,  and — strange  anomaly — her  little  bundle 
of  earthly  possessions,  the  chattels-personal,  which,  from 
a  sort  of  necessity,  adhered  to  the  animate-personalty, 
the  chattel-real.  For,  somehow,  there  was  no  legal 
subtlety  which  could  deny  the  slave's  right  to  some 
sort  of  an  outfit. 

The  fourth  day  of  "the  Christmas  "—for  "the 
Christmas "  to  the  slave  reached  from  Dec.  25th  to 
Jan.  I  St,  inclusive,  the  successive  days  being  distin- 
guished by  numbering — had  not  opened  as  pleasantly 
as  its  predecessor  seemed  to  have  promised.  A  cold, 
drizzling,  steady  rain  had  set  in  with  a  sharp  wind 
from  the  north-west.  It  was  almost  the  first  cold  storm 
of  the  season.  As  Bob  had  remarked,  lucidly,  to  the 
temporary  cook,  in  the  kitchen  of  the  Hunter  man- 
sion— "Bin  so  warm,  it  jes'  open  de  skin  so 't  one  git 
full  ob  cold  in  a  minit."  Long  wear  had  also  opened 
the  finger  ends  of  Bob's  gloves — "  they  was  once  Mass' 
Geoffrey's  best  pair,  but  that  was  a  time  ago,"  he  had 
said,  jollily — and,  as  he  drove  along,  each  dusky  finger 


FROM  SIRE   TO  SON,  43 

showed  chill  and  shrunken  through  the  worn  integu- 
ment. Well  clad  and  comfortable  sat  the  young  mas- 
ter beside  him,  wrapped  and  muffled,  smoking  in  quiet 
complacency.  And  behind,  one  hand  clinging  to  the 
back  of  the  buggy  seat,  the  other  at  once  holding  her 
bundle  and  acting  as  an  improvised  balancing  pole, 
sat  Toinette.  Her  abbreviated  frock,  of  the  coarse 
linsey-woolsey  which  constituted  the  winter  wear  of 
slaves  and  poor  whites,  flying  in  the  wind  and  her 
stockingless  legs  swinging  to  and  fro,  with  the  huge 
uncomely  shoes,  made  for  plantation  use,  bouncing 
bacK  and  forth  as  the  wheels  sank  into  overflowing 
ruts  or  mounted  upon  roots  and  stumps  which  adorned 
the  highway,  and  which  Bob  was  in  no  mood  to 
shun. 

Bespattered  with  mud,  bedraggled  with  rain,  chilled 
with  the  cold  breath  of  the  coming  winter,  she  thought 
of  her  mother's  words,  "  Child,  it  were  better  you  had 
never  been  born."  She  was  going  away  from  her 
mother,  away  from  home — she  called  it  "  home  "  and 
"hers."  She  almost  laughed  as  she  thought  of  it,  not 
bitterly — she  had  not  yet  reached  the  dregs — but  it 
seemed  so  absurd.  What  difference  did  it  make  to  her 
where  she  was — where  she  went }  Nothing  was  hers, 
not  even  herself.  She  doubted  if  her  soul  was.  What 
matter  where  she  lived  .-^  It  was  only  so  many  days, 
and  then — would  she  have  anything,  own  anything, 
possess  anything,  be  anything,  after  that  great  "Then  ".? 
She  doubted. 

How  the  wind  blew !  She  almost  wished  the  chill 
would  reach  her  heart  and  stop  its  beating,  before  her 


44  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

life  grew  so  fearfully  sad  as  she  knew  her  mother's 
must  have  been.  The  master  was  dreaming  of  the  in- 
heritance toward  which  he  rode,  and  Bob  was  too 
cold  to  let  the  proud-stepping  bay  sleep  in  the  traces. 
He  looked  around  sometimes  too,  and  saw  the  little 
half-clad  creature  behind,  clinging  to  the  seat-rail, 
and  bouncing  to  and  fro  as  if  blown  by  the  wind. 
He  heard  the  low  moans  which  came  from  the  chilled 
lips,  and  slyly  gave  the  bay  a  touch  of  the  whip.  The 
road  was  short  from  the  Hunter  Home  to  Lovett 
Lodge  that  day  to  one  of  the  men,  long  enough  to  the 
bare-fingered  chattel  who  held  the  whip  and  reins,  and 
seemed  almost  endless  to  the  drenched  and  drabbled 
creature,  who  was  borne,  chilled  to  the  marrow,  tearful 
and  hopeless,  away  from  slavery's  childhood  and  a 
chattel  mother,  to  a  womanhood  of  bondage,  with  the 
protection  only  of  Him  who  shields  the  lamb  from 
■  winter  storms. 

Thus  they  went  to  Lovett  Lodge. 

"  Bless  me !  "  exclaimed  Geoffrey,  jumping  from  the 
buggy  as  they  reached  their  destination,  half-benumbed 
in  spite  of  wrappings,  as  he  saw  old  Leon,  with  his 
fore-paws  upon  the  axle,  licking  the  tear-stained  face 
of  his  new  friend,  who  clung  in  shivering  unconscious- 
ness to  her  perch,  *' Bless  me,  if  the  child  isn't  near 
about  frozen !     Maggie  !  O  Maggie  !  " 

The  master's  voice  brought  from  the  house  old  Mag- 
gie,— the  very  picture  of  rotund,  healthy,  black  benig- 
nity. A  form  and  face  that  bade  defiance  to  age  and 
trouble,  and  a  step  that  showed  capacity  for  a  "heap 
o*  work  yit."     Her  best  calico  was  doing  its  Christmas 


FROM  SIRE   TO  SON.  45 

duty,  the  sleeves  rolled  above  the  elbows,  to  avoid  mis- 
hap, while  the  snowiest  of  turbans  crowned  her  head, 
whose  matted  locks  were  just  beginning  to  show  silver 
threads. 

"Why,  whoever  in  the  world  hev  yo'  got  thar.  Mass* 
Geoffrey?"  she  exclaimed,  after  dropping  a  curtsey  and 
uttering  the  customary  "  Christmas  Gif."  "Lawsakes, 
ef  t'aint  Mabel's  Toinette !  Shakes  like  it  had  an  agur 
fit,"  and  the  kind-hearted  old  slave  woman  folded  her 
sooty  arms  about  the  shivering,  splattered  figure  on  the 
"buck-board,"  regardless  of  consequences  to  the  best 
calico,  and  carried  her  affectionately  into  the  house. 
Old  Leon  followed,  contentedly,  bringing  the  bundle 
which  had  fallen  from  Toinette 's  grasp. 

There  was  a  huge  fire  in  the  great  sitting-room  of 
the  mansion,  for,  besides  the  master's  absence,  the 
fact  that  she  was  housekeeper  at  the  Lodge,  and 
his  almost  constant  occupation  of  the  Library,  had 
given  Maggie  a  show  of  reason  for  making  herself  a 
pretty  constant  denizen  of  this  room.  A  measure  which 
was  attended  with  so  many  conveniences,  and  so  pru- 
dently executed,  that  Geoffrey  had  not  only  come  to 
acquiesce    in,  but    really   to    approve,    it. 

He  had  all  confidence  in  old  Maggie,  people  said, 
and  allowed  her  great  privileges.  Why  should  he 
not .?  Those  strong  arms  had  been  his  cradle,  and 
from  that  bosom  he  had  drawn  the  strength  of  his 
young  life.  She  was  his  old  nurse,  and  she  loved  him 
as  her  son,  aye,  even  as  she  loved  that  son  whose 
lips  had  been  taken  from  her  breast,  and  who  had 
been  sold  to  the  trader,  that  she  might  give  more  at*. 


4G  A  A'OVAL  GENTLEMAN. 

tention    and    care    to    the    young    heir   of    the    Hunter 
family. 

"There  was  no  trusting  them,"  the  sage  Manuel 
had  said,  when  remonstrated  with  by  his  feeble  wife. 
They  would  neglect  the  children  they  were  nursing, 
as  long  as  their  own  brats  were  in  reach.  It  was  a 
likely  young  nigger,  and  wouldn't  bring  anything  now, 
scarcely;  but  it  was  better  to  sacrifice  something,  to 
make  sure  the  boy — his  boy,  the  hope  of  the  Hunter 
name — should  receive  proper   attention. 

So  the  black  baby  was  taken  from  the  clinging  arms 
and  yearning  breast,  and  the  puny  wdiite  one  placed 
there  instead.  How  the  arms  loathed  it !  How  the 
swelling  breasts  shrank  from  it,  and  refused  it  suste- 
nance until  its  wailing  cry  minded  the  mother  of  her  own 
lost  treasure.  Then  the  arms  clasped  it  close,  the  breast 
yielded  its  wealth,  and  the  slave  mother  supplied  with 
tearful  assiduity  the  wants  of  her  infant  lord  and  mas- 
ter. She  had  a  foolish  notion,  that  as  she  cared  for 
her  nursling  so  would  the  Good  Master  in  Heaven  care 
for  her  own  motherless  boy.  Of  course  it  was  foolish. 
God  cared  nothing  for  the  little  nigger  brat.  But  it 
consoled  her,  and  she  had  always  kept  up  the  delusion. 
It  made  her  feel  better,  and  kept  her  from  giving  up 
entirely.  Thus  the  white  baby  had  come  almost  un- 
consciously to  take  the  place  of  the  black  one  she  had 
lost,  or,  rather,  since  the  latter  was  never  forgotten,  the 
Caucasian  master-child  had  come  to  be  a  twin  exist- 
ence, in  the  memory  of  the  chattel-mother,  with  the  lost 
African  slave-brat.  So  that  when  the  actual  baby  in 
her    arms    was    christened,    with    abundant    ceremony, 


FROM  SIRE   TO  SON.  47 

''Geoffrey,"  with  loving  tears  she  had  baptized  the  dusky 
mannikin  she  nourished  still  in  memory,  "  Jeff." 

Before  the  huge  fireplace  sat  a  large  splint-bottomed 
arm-chair,  from  which  Maggie  had  risen  when  called 
by  Geoffrey,  and  here  she  now  deposited  her  burden, 
and  had  removed  the  dripping  bonnet  when  Geoffrey 
appeared,  bringing  in  the  Christmas  gifts  which,  care- 
fully bundled  up,  had  been  stowed  under  the  seat, 
during  the  ride. 

"Pore  thing,  pore  thing,"  repeated  old  Maggie, 
"  whatever  did  you  bring  her  fur,  in  dis  awful  weather 
Mas'r  Geoffrey.?" 

"Why,  to  see  you,  Maggie,  and  be  a  little  company 
for  you,"  replied  the  young  master. 

"  Wal,  wal !  "  laughed  Aunt  iMaggie,  for  she  was  not 
proof  against  flattery,  especially  from  Geoffrey,  and 
when  it  assumed  the  form  of  considerate  kindness,  "but 
ole  Maggie's  not  so  bad  off  fur  company  while  young 
Mas'r  Geoff's  about  that  you  need  to  go  and  freeze  dis 
pore  gal  to  death  jes  to  bring  her  out  to  visit  me, 
though  I  da'say  she  wanted  to  come  an'  see  old  Mag- 
gie. Dey  all  takes  to  me,  black  an'  white — even  de  ole 
dog  hisself.  Why,  whatever  has  he  got  now .?  "  she  ex- 
claimed, as  Leon  came  waddling  up  to  her  with  a 
somewhat  cumbrous  bundle  in  his  mouth.  "  Law  sakes ! 
ef  't  tain't  the  pore  chile's  duds !  What  does  it  all 
mean,  IMass'r  Geoffrey  .?  " 

"  Simply  that  my  father  made  me  a  very  bountiful 
Christmas  gift,  including  the  Lovett  place,  my  old  nurse, 
and  about  a  dozen  other  servants,"  said  Geoffrey,  with 
a  poorly-assumed  air  of  confident  indifference. 


48  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

"  Wal,  wal,  I'se  jes  de  same  as  bin  yourn'  dis  one 
an'  twenty  years,"  replied  Maggie,  "  but  dat  do  n't 
'splain  Toinette's  bein'  here." 

"Toinette  was  a  part  of  the  present,"  said  Geof- 
frey. 

"Wal,  wal,  I  nebber!  Toinette  a  part  of  de  gif!" 
said  the  old  nnrse  in  amazement. 

"  Why,  what  is  there  so  surprising  about  that .? " 
asked  Geoffrey. 

"Oh,  nuffin,  nuffin,  only  I  heard  Mass'r  Manwel 
promise  INIiss  Ruth  that  he  never  Avould  sell  or  give 
'way  Toinette  ner  Mabel,  an'  when  he  died  dat  *dey 
sartin  should  be  sot  free,"  answered  Maggie. 

"  Did  my  father  promise  my  mother  that  "i  "  asked 
Geoffrey. 

"  He  did,  chile,  sartin  shore ;  shore  's  ole  nuss  tells 
ye,  an'  ye  know  she  would  n't  tell  a  lie  fur  de  hull 
worl',"  Maggie  replied. 

"  No,  Aunt  Maggie,  you  never  told  me  a  lie,  and  I 
do  n't  think  you  '11  begin  now.  This  explains  some- 
thing though,"  said  Geoffrey,  and  he  began  to  pace  the 
room  with  a  disturbed  countenance. 

"What  is  it,  honey .^"  said  old  Maggie,  as  she  paused 
in  her  task  of  restoring  consciousness  by  rubbing  and 
warming  Toinette's  chilled  limbs. 

And  then  the  young  master  sat  down  near  the  old 
servant  and  told  her  all  that  had  occurred  during  the 
two  previous  days  at  the  Hunter  rnansion.  AVhen  he 
had  finished  the  old  nurse  looked  grave  for  a  time,  and 
then,  turning  sharply  upon  him,  asked : 

"What  made  ye  ask  Toinette   of  yer  father?      Ye 


FROM  SIRE  TO  SON.  49 

know  he   can't  refuse   ye,  an'  what  do  you  want   o*  de 
gal,   anyhow?  " 

"  I  hardly  know,"  he  answered  ;  "  I  had  a  fancy  for 
her.  She  is  so  full  of  life,  quick  and  intelligent.  I 
believe  if  my  motives  had  been  analyzed  at  the  time 
they  would  have  been  found  to  be,  to  give  you  a  little 
help  and  a  good  deal  of  company." 
•    "An'  nuffin'  else.''"    she  asked,  eyeing  him  closely. 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  flushed  angrily,  and  then 
replied,  "  Nothing  else.  You  do  n't  think  I  mean  to 
turn  speculator.^"  and  added,  '' Xow  that  you  have 
told  me  my  father's  promise  to  my  mother,  I  am  deter- 
mined that  it  shall  be  fulfilled.  I  will  keep  the  girl 
and  take  good  care  of  her  as  ray  mother  did,  and  when 
my  father  dies  she  shall  be  emancipated.  She  will 
be  quite  as  well  off  here  as  at  home,  I  do  not  care  to 
have  everybody  know  my  intention,  but  I  will  attend 
to  it  at  once." 

And  so  Toinette's  future  was  mapped  out  before 
she  had  recovered  her  consciousness.  This  Christmas 
was  likely  to  be  an  eventful  one  to  her,  at  least. 

Meantime  but  little  progress  was  made  in  the  process 
of  restoration.  The  chill  was  so  severe  as  to  threaten 
serious  results,  and  Geoffrey  more  than  once  suggested 
sending  for  a  physician.  Aunt  Maggie,  however,  de- 
clared it  unnecessary,  and  merely  redoubled  her  own 
efforts,  saying  that  she  "  knowed  better  nor  any  doc- 
tor." After  a  time  the  opening  of  Toinette's  eyes,  and 
some  wondering  questions  as  to  her  whereabouts,  veri- 
fied the  truth  of  the  assertion,  "It  was  only  wrappin' 
and   rubbin',  an'   a   good    fire    an'   a   little    toddy   she 


50  A   ROYAL    GENTLEMAN. 

needed  to  bring  her  all  right,"  Aunt  Maggie  said,  as 
she  forced  another  dose  of  the  latter  down  the  girl's 
unwilling  throat. 

She  soon  brightened,  partook  heartily  of  Aunt 
Maggie's  bountiful  dinner,  and  was  ready  to  begin 
prospecting  in  the  new  dominion  of  her  new  master. 
Having  learned  the  interest  manifested  in  her  by 
Leon,  she  at  once  established  a  sworn  friendship  with 
the  noble  old  Newfoundland,  and  from  that  day  on 
they  were  almost  inseparable  companions. 

The  young  master  watched  her  thoughtfully,  as  she 
alternately  petted  the  dog  and  inspected  narrowly  her 
surroundings.  The  old  nurse  had  arrayed  her  in  the 
best  of  her  slave  garments,  instead  of  the  old  and 
soiled  one  in  which  she  had  made  the  journey.  Thus 
clad,  and  the  wealth  of  black  hair  brushed  back  from 
her  forehead  and  hanging  in  loose  curls  upon  her 
shoulders,  with  dark,  liquid  eyes,  full  of  childish  won- 
der, and  the  red  flushing  the  clear,  soft  olive  of  her 
cheek,  it  was  no  wonder  that  Mr.  Geoffrey  Hun- 
ter more  than  once  thought  of  his  father's  remark — "A 
right  likely  gal."  But  somehow  he  was  not  much  in- 
clined to  estimate  her  value  now.  He  had  an  idea  in 
his  head  which  pleased  him  better,  and  w^as  going  to 
carry  it  out. 

Why  should  he  not  .^  he  asked  himself.  He  could 
afford  to.  His  mother  liked  this  girl — half  child  yet — 
who  had  attended  her  in  sickness  with  such  unusual 
devotion — loved  her  almost  as  if  she  had  been  her 
own  daughter;  and  it  was  her  desire  that  Toinette 
should  be  emancipated.     It  should  be  done.    Of  course, 


FROM  SIRE   TO  SON.  51 

his  mother  would  not  have  desired  that  she  should 
receive  her  freedom  until  she  was  prepared  to  pre- 
serve and  enjoy  it.  She  should  have  freedom,  and 
he,  Geoffrey  Hunter,  would  prepare  her  for  it.  He 
would  do  this  in  honor  of  his  mother's  memory.  He 
knew  that  she  would  approve  the  act  could  she  but 
know  of  it.  The  child  was  all  but  white,  anyhow. 
It  was  a  shame  to  hold  her  a  slave.  He  would  edu- 
cate her  and  fit  her  for  freedom,  and  when  his  father 
died — perhaps  before — she  should  be  free. 

It  was  a  generous  resolve  which  warmed  the  heart 
and  moistened  the  eye  of  the  young  man.  It  brought 
the  reward  which  the  very  contemplation  of  a  good 
act  always  brings — the  pay  in  advance  which  the  Lord 
gives  to  them  that  do  right — a  lightened  spirit. 

"Well,  Toinette,"  said  he  presently,  "did  you  get 
a  Christmas  gift  to  suit  you .?  " 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face  and  answered  blunt 
and  straight : 

"  No,  sah,  did  n't  get  any." 

"  Not  get  any,  Toinette  !  "  he  said.      "  Why  not }  " 

"  Mass'r  Hendricks  would  n't  let  me  have  what 
I  wanted,  so  I  come  off  widout  anything,"  she  re- 
plied. 

"  That 's  strange.  I  told  Hendricks  to  let  you 
have  whatever  you  liked,  if  it  was  the  best  in  the 
store,"  Geoffrey  replied. 

"  That 's  what  he  tole  me,  sah,"  said  Toinette. 

"  And  yet  he  would  not  let  you  have  what  you 
wanted  .^  "  Geoffrey  asked. 

"No,  sah." 


52  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

"  I  do  n't  quite  understand  that.  Tell  me  how  it 
was,"  her  master  said  kindly. 

"  Well,  you  see,  sah,"  said  she,  coming  nearer,  and 
speaking  earnestly,  "  I  went  to  de  store  wid  Bob,  an' 
giv'  Mass'r  Hendricks  de  order,  an'  tole  him  I  wanted 
a  Christmas  dress  an'  apron.  He  said,  '  I  under- 
stand, I  understand,*  an'  then  begun  to  take  down 
the  prettiest  goods  in  de  store,  real  splendid — like 
Miss  Lucy  an'  Miss  Mary  wears — all  soft,  an'  warm, 
an'  nice.  An'  I  kep'  lookin'  at  one  piece  an'  another, 
an'  wishin',  an'  wishin'  I  was  some  great  lady  to  wear 
such  gran'  close  till  I  mos'  got  to  thinkin'  I  was.  I 
stood  there,  an'  kep'  sayin',  what  a  pretty  dress  this 
would  make,  an'  what  a  fine  mantilly  that ;  an'  Mass'r 
Hendricks  he  kep'  sayin',  '  Which  do  you  like  bes',  dis 
one  or  dat  one?'  an'  of  course  I'd  tell  him;  an'  I 
do  n't  know  but  I'd  stood  there  till  now  if  it  had  n't 
been  for  Bob."     She  hesitated,  and  Geoffrey  abked : 

"  Well,  what  did  Bob  do  ?  " 

"  Nuffin',  only  " — and  she  hesitated. 

"Only  what.^"  asked  Geoffrey,  evidently  enjoying 
the  girl's  story  of  her   exploit. 

"  Well,  he  jis  said  to  one  of  de  men  in  de  store, 

*  Lor'  do  n't  she  make  Mass'r  Geoffrey's  r^ioney  fly, 
for  a  young  un.'  But  I  had  no  idea  of  buyin'  them 
nice  things  for  myself,  Mass'r  Geoffrey,  not  a  bit.  So 
I  tole  Mass'r  Hendricks  I  jis  wanted  some  good  calico, 
an'  was  only  lookin'  at  these  nice  things; — tho' t  he 
was  only  showin'  'em  to  me  for  de  fun.     He  only  said, 

*  Yes,  yes,  I  know,'  an'  would  n't  show  me  any  calico 
at  all.     He  said  'twas  Mass'r  Geoff"'s  orders,  an'  Mass'r 


FROM  SIRE   TO  SON,  53 

Geoff  knowed  what  he  was  about,  ef  he  was  n't  as  old 
as  a  bald  eagle.'  An'  the  long  an'  short  of  it  was,  he 
would  n't  let  me  have  calico,  an'  I  would  n't  take  any- 
thing else." 

"  And  so  you  got  no  Christmas  gift  ?  "  said  Geof- 
frey. 

"  No,  sah,"  Toinette  replied, 

"What  is  this  then.''"  he  asked,  taking  the  one  he 
had  brought  in  from  the  sideboard.  "  Bob  said  it  was 
your  things,  and  here  is  Hendrick's  bill  of  articles — 
'Bought   by  Toinette';  this  must  be  yours." 

He  unrolled  the  package  and  displayed  the  goods — 
soft,  rich  merinos,  with  dainty  trimmings,  and  fresh, 
pure  muslins,  seeming  like  the  work  of  fairy  hands  be- 
side the  coarse  dress  she  now  wore.  A  pretty  hood 
and  elegant  shoes  completed  the  outfit.  One  by  one 
they  rolled  from  Geoffrey's  knees  to  the  floor  at  the 
feet  of  the  wondering  child.  "  It  was  not  strange  she 
wished  herself  a  lady,"  he  thought,  when  he  compared 
the  slave  costume  with  the  elegant  goods  upon  the 
floor.  They  did  credit  to  her  taste,  too.  No  harsh, 
glaring  colors,  but,  as  she  said,  "  soft,  and  warm,  and 
nice." 

"  So  these  are  not  your  things }  "  he  said  ;  "  you  did 
not  buy  them.^  " 

"  Oh,  no,  sah !  Mass'r  Hendricks  knows  I  did  n't. 
I  tole  him  I  only  wanted  calico,"  she  answered,  with  a 
frightened  look. 

"  Then  I  must  send  them  back,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  he. 

"  I  reckon  so,  sah.  He  mus'  a  known  I  did  n't  want 
such  goods  ez  these,"  she  answered,  meditatively. 


54  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

*  Of  course ;  but  suppose  I  give  them  to  you,  would 
you  not  like  to  wear  them  ?  "  said  Geoffrey. 

"Oh,  Mass'r  Geoffrey!"  said  the  girl,  in  confusion, 

"oh,  Mass'r  Geoff,  I'se  only  a ."     The  blood  rushed 

over  neck  and  face  in  a  sweeping  flood  of  shame.  Her 
limbs  tottered,  and  her  breath  came  quick  and  chok- 
ingly.    Of  course  he  knew  she  was  "  only  a ."     As 

if  she  should  think  of  being  anything  else.  Oh,  why, 
why!  Her  soul  was  beating  against  the  prison  bars 
already.  She  knew  that  such  garments  were  not  befit- 
ting "a  ."  Somehow  the  confusion  got  into  Geof- 
frey Hunter's  face  too.  It  was  hot  and  flushed.  He 
was  glad  she  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  It  was  doubt- 
ful which  was  the  most  nonplussed,  the  newly-acquired 
slave  or  the  newly-fledged  master. 

"  Pshaw,  pshaw  !  "  said  he,  petulantly,  "  they  are 
yours,  child.  Take  them,  take  them !  "  And  he  arose 
and  left  the  room. 

"'Only  a  .'     Gad,  I  was  afraid  she'd  finish  it 

and  say  'nigger.'  I  should  have  told  her  'twas  a  lie 
if  she  had.  Damned  if  I  believe  there's  'nig'  enough 
in  her  veins  to  keep  a  musquito  alive  two  seconds ! " 


CHAPTER   V. 

MORTUA     MANUS. 

GEOFFREY  HUNTER  was  not  a  man  to  sleep 
upon  his  intentions,  good  or  bad.  There  was 
no  hesitating,  waiting,  or  trifling  in  his  composition. 
Direct  and  earnest,  he  went  like  an  arrow  straight  to 
the  mark.  Accordingly  the  next  day  saw  him  alight 
at  the  street  door  of  his  father's  office. 

"  Howdye,  son,  howdye .''  Anything  wrong  at  Lov- 
ett's.''"  asked  the  old  man,  anxiously. 

"  All  tolerable  there,  1  thank  you ;  I  just  came 
over  on  business,"  said  the  son. 

"  Oh,  something  you  need  at  Hendricks',  I  sup- 
pose," said  the  father. 

"No,"  replied  Geoffrey,  "my  business  is  with  you. 
I  want  a  deed  of  manumission." 

'  Hey,  Geoffrey,"  said  the  old  man  in  surprise,  "  you 
are  not  turning  Abolitionist,  are  you.?  You  crazy  boy, 
you  frighten  me !  " 

"  No,  I  am  not  turning  Abolitionist,  and  you  need 
not  be  frightened  on  that  score,  for  I  am  not  likely  to ; 
but,  nevertheless,  I  want  a  deed  of  manumission  drawn, 
and  if  you  will  not  do  it  for  me  I  will  go  over  to  Per- 
kins and  employ  him,"  said  Geoffrey,  laughing. 

And  then  Geoffrey  Hunter  explained  that  having 
learned    it    to    be    the    desire    of    his    lately   deceased 


56  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

mother  that  Toinette  should  be  manumitted,  at  least 
on  the  death  of  her  former  master — he,  her  present 
master,  conceived  it  his  duty,  in  consideration  of  his 
dead  parent's  wish,  to  make  provisions  for  her  eman- 
cipation according  to  his  father's  promise,  if  not  be- 
fore. He  was  strengthened  in  this  resolution,  too,  by 
an  unwillingness  which  he  felt  to  hold  as  a  slave,  or 
sell,  one  who  evidently  had  a  strong  preponderance 
of  Saxon  blood. 

"  Yes,  Geoffrey,"  said  the  old  man,  earnestly,  "  your 
mother  did  wish  the  gal  and  her  mammy  sot  free,  and 
spoke  to  me  about  it  times  without  number,  in  her 
later  days.  I  did  'low  to  have  it  done  then,  but  her 
sister  Lucy  kept  insisting  that  Ruthy  was  crazy,  and 
her  conceits  didn't  signify;  that  if  I'd  only  jest 
promise,  so  's  to  satisfy  her,  it  would  all  be  right.  I 
know  I  promised  her  once  that  they  should  be  free  at 
my  decease.  And  I  did  make  that  provision  in  my 
will,  as  you  will  find  when  you  come  to  be  my  ex- 
ecutor, as  I  spect  you  will  afore  long.  Sonny.  How- 
ever, it  does  not  matter  now,  for  that  part  of  the  will 
can  never  be  executed. 

"  You  see,  the  General  Assembly  last  winter  took 
it  into  their  heads  to  regulate  the  matter  of  emanci- 
pation, on  the  idea  that  the  institution  of  slavery  needed 
another  restriction  to  keep  it  in  life.  Besides  that, 
this  abolition  business  at  the  North  is  playing  the 
wild  with  our  people's  notions.  They  think  because 
those  fanatics  are  trying  to  free  all  the  niggers,  it  is 
our  business  to  turn  in  and  prevent  any  of  them  from 
getting  their  liberty.     We  hav'  n't  got  quite  so  bad  as 


MORTUA  MAN  US.  57 

that,  Geoffy — not  here.  In  some  of  the  States  they 
have  gone  to  even  that  length.  There  is  enough  re- 
gard left  with  us  yet  for  the  very  name  of  freedom, 
^ihat  freedom  so  dear  to  the  common  law  that  it  never 
would  take  kindly  to  the  system  of  slavery — there  is 
just  enough  of  that  left,  so  that  a  kind  intention  to- 
ward a  faithful  or  favorite  slave  can  yet  be  carried 
out,  if  a  man  is  only  rich  enough  to  make  a  deed  of 
gift  without  his  creditors  interfering.  Even  then,  how- 
ever, he  must  get  leave  of  the  Superior  Court  and  give 
bond,  with  good  security,  in  the  penal  sum  of  a  thou- 
sand dollars,  conditioned  that  the  manumitted  slave 
shall  leave  the  State  in  ninety  days  thereafter,  and 
never  return  thereto.  This  has  been  the  law  in  effect 
since  '35,  when  the  Constitution  was  amended  and  the 
*  free  niggers  '  deprived  of  the  elective  franchise.  One 
always  had  the  right,  though,  to  manumit  his  slaves 
by  will,  the  executor  complying  with  the  statutory  con- 
ditions, till  last  winter,  when  the  Legislature  repealed 
that  part  of  the  law  and  made  all  testamentary  eman- 
cipation void.  I  'm  sorry  for  it,  too.  It  looks  like  an 
admission  of  guilt — as  if  slavery  was  afraid  of  the 
twinges  of  conscience  on  the  death-bed  an'  could  n't 
hold  its  own  when  the  soul  began  to  shrivel  into  noth*- 
ingness  in  the  view  and  presence  of  the  Infinite. 

"I  don't  know,  Geoffy,  where  all  this  matter  of 
legislating  about  slavery,  p7'o  and  con^  in  the  States 
and  the  general  Government  too,  is  going  to  end. 
I  can  't  help  being  afeard  that  trouble  will  come 
on  't  sometime.     At  first,  things   went   agin    the    South 

m  this  matter,  and  it  seemed  as  if  slavery  was  going 
5 


58  'i  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

to  lose  its  foothold  in  the  nation.  I  'm  sorry  some- 
times that  it  didn't.  We'd  been  better  off,  Geoffy — 
better  off.  Vou  remember  Jefferson  was  dead  down 
agin  it,  as  were  a  good  many  of  our  best  Southern  men- 
at  first.  You  know,  of  course,  what  Jefferson  said, 
for  the  Abolitionists  hev  made  a  great  handle  on  't  for 
years,  but  perhaps  you  never  heard  that  Kosciusko — 
the  Polish  hero  who  fought  for  the  Colonies  in  the 
Revolution,  and  who  certainly  had  no  prejudice  in  the 
matter — you  may  not  have  heard  that  he  left  his  en- 
tire estate  to  be  used  in  freeing  and  educating  nig- 
gers. He  spent  most  of  his  time  with  Jefferson  at 
Monticello,  was  a  great  friend  of  his,  and  made  him 
his  executor.  Jefferson  declined  the  trust,  on  account 
of  his  age,  he  said.  I  was  over  in  Albemarle  a  few 
years  ago,  an'  went  to  the  clerk's  office  to  see  the 
original  will.  It 's  there,  and  it  seemed  strange  enough 
to  read  the  brief,  quaint  instrument  and  reflect  that 
the  institution  which  this  patriot  so  feared  and  de- 
tested in  its  infancy  has  since  grown  up  and  over- 
shadowed the  whole  land.  It 's  odd,  too,  that  the  very 
party  which  Jefferson  founded  has  been  the  jealous 
guardian  of  slavery  and  its  propagation.  The  centrif- 
ugal force — the  dispersion  of  power — which  was  his 
favorite  idea,  has  been  the  nurse  of  the  institution 
which  he  dreaded  and  condemned.  Had  the  principle 
of  Hamilton — the  centripetal  tendency  of  power — pre- 
vailed, there  is  little  doubt  that  slavery  would  have  dis- 
appeared long  ago  before  the  numerical  preponderance 
of  the  North. 

"  Marshall,  too,  the  great  expounder  of  our  consti- 


MORTUA  MAN  US.  59 

tution,  was  never  kindly  disposed  to  slavery.  Though 
he  had  to  pronounce  it  legal,  from  a  conviction  that 
the  young  Republic  could  not  endure  the  shock  of  an 
adverse  decision,  there  was  an  undertone  went  through 
the  entire  case  that  was  more  convincing  than  the 
text.  You  will  find  it  in  loth  Wheaton^  and  it 's  worth 
reading. 

"  The  fact  is,  Geoffrey,  those  old  fellows  were  the 
right  kind  of  Abolitionists.  They  owned  niggers,  and 
wer'  n't  meddling  with  what  they  had  no  interest  in, 
or,  like  the  old  Sarmatian,  were  too  high-minded  to 
have  any  but  a  noble  motive.  If  there  had  been  more 
of  them  they  would  have  found  some  way  to  get  rid 
of  the  trouble  long  ago.  I  'm  more  'n  half  of  the  no- 
tion it  would  hev  been  better  if  they  had. 

"  After  this,  everything  turned  in  our  favor,  and 
slavery  has  certainly  been  'cock  of  the  walk'  since  '32 
or  thereabouts.  I  'm  afraid  it  's  not  for  always,  though. 
The  institution  aint  what  it  once  was.  Years  ago,  when 
our  fathers  fust  held  slaves,  they  were  poor  an'  hard- 
working themselves,  the  majority  of  them.  And  even 
the  richest  had  to  hev  a  keer  over  things  we  do  n't 
give  'em  now-a-days.  The  system  was  patriarchal  then, 
sure  enough.  These  poor  heathen  niggers  had  all  the 
privileges  of  a  Christian  family.  Sometimes  they  learned 
to  read  and  write.  They  were  kept  and  cared  for,  and 
taught  to  work  and  obey  the  law.  Those  were  great 
things,  Sonny,  to  teach  a  heathen  to  work  and  behave 
himself — an'  I  've  always  thought  that  slavery  in  the 
United  States  was  as  divinely  ordained  as  the  church 
itself.     I  've  no  doubt   time  will   prove  it  so.     I  do  n't 


60  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

know  why  it  was,  for  there  's  a  heap  of  bad  things  come 
with  it,  or  with  its  abuse,  certain,  but  my  word  for  it, 
Son,  it  wa'n't  no  accident;  God  meant  it — an'  meant  it 
for  some  good,  too.  And  when  it 's  done  its  work,  he  '11 
find  a  way  to  end  it.  I  'm  afeard  it  's  coming  to  be 
such  a  high-pressure  system  of  speculation,*  that  it  will 
bring  up  at  the  bad  yet.  The  pesky  Abolitionists  fuss- 
ing and  jowering  about  what  they  know  nothing  of  an* 
haint  no  more  interest  in  than  a  dog  in  a  cider-mill, 
to  my  notion,  are  just  making  a  bad  matter  worse  all 
the  time.  They  give  an  excuse  to  bad  men  to  make 
our  slave-laws  harsher  and  our  practice  rougher  every 
year — an'  at  the  same  time  they  provoke  good  men,  by 
their  lies  an'  slanders,  to  sit  still  and  see  this  done 
without  objections. 

"  There  seems  to  be  trouble  brewing  now,  and  I 
think  we  are  just  at  the  fust  on  't.  But  there,  there, 
do  n't  let  's  talk  about  it  any  more.  It  's  an  unpleas- 
ant thing  to  think  of  at  the  best.  It 's  like  every- 
thing else  in  politics,  brings  a  heap  more  trouble  than 
comfort  or  profit.  Do  n't  ever  touch  'em,  Geoffy, 
boy.  Whatever  other  mean  thing  you  may  do,  keep 
out  of  politics.  It  spoils  any  man,  and  kills  a  lawyer 
quicker  than   arsenic. 

"  But   how  about  this  matter  we  had  in  hand  } 

"  I  knew  the  will  was  of    no  account  arter  the  act 

of  last  winter ;    so   when  you   took  a  fancy  to  the  gal, 

just  out  'o  weakness  or  laziness — to  avoid  the  trouble 

of  arguing    you    out   on  't — I   let    you   have   her.       So 

*  The  word    "  speculate "   and   its   derivations  were  applied  at 
the  South  exclusively  to  the  traflfic  in  slaves. 


MORTUA  MAN  US.  61 

now  I  own  the  mother,  an'  you  own  the  gal,  both  of 
whom  I  promised  Ruthy  should  be  emancipated  at  my 
death.  Now,  as  the  law  forbids  my  emancipating  Mabel 
by  will,  and  you  want  to  give  Toinette  her  liberty,  jes' 
get  yer  pen,  and  sit  down  here,  an'  we  '11  take  the 
fust  step  toward  fulfilling  yer  mother's  request,  pore 
dear.  She  '11  nigh  forgit  the  joys  of  Heaven  when  she 
sees  her  old  Manuel  an'  our  Geoffy  remembering  her 
last  wish,  an  doin'  on  't.  Now,  let  me  see :  the  first 
thing  is  a  petition  under  ch.  107  of  the  Code,  sec.  45' 
It  's  not  done  often,  so  that  a  lawyer  is  not  usually 
required  to  draw  more  than  one  in  a  lifetime,  and  not 
one  in  a  hundred  of  the  profession  could  tell  whether 
it  was  right  or  wrong  without  consulting  the  statute. 
"  Now  write  the  usual  heading — 

'  State  of  North  Carolina,  \    ^''  ^^''  Superior  Court. 

County  of  Cold  Spring,     t     o.   •       ^t-  o 

)      spring   lerm^   1^5  9. 

*  To  the  Honorable^  the  Judge  of  said  Co2iri :' 

("  Put  in  your  colon.  Son.  Never  forgit  yer  colons 
an'  brackets  in  heading  a  paper.  It  has  been  decided 
that  punctuation  is  no  part  of  a  statute ;  but  I  tell  you. 
Son,  it  is  a  part  of  a  legal  instrument.  You  mind  what 
has  been  said  about  pleading,  that  '  he  who  knows  how 
to  use  the  words  "  said  "  and  "  aforesaid  "  is  a  good 
pleader ' — not  because  these  words  are  more  important 
than  any  others,  but  because  a  knowledge  of  their  use 
implies  knowledge  of  a  thousand  other  important  things. 
So,  he  that  knows  how  to  divide  and  distinguish  prop- 
erly between  the  different  parts  of  a  written  instrument 
— what   may   be    well    termed    legal    punctuation — is   a 


62  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

good  draughtsman,  and  no  one  else  can  be.  Now 
go  on.) 

" '  Your  Petitioner,  Manuel  Hunter,  respectfully  rep- 
resents unto  your  Honor,  that  he  is  an  inhabitant  of 
the  State  and  county  aforesaid;' — (You  see,  Son,  the 
statute  requires  the  petition  to  set  forth  that  fact,  be- 
fore the  court  can  have  jurisdiction.  The  ordinary 
form  uses  "citizen"  or  "resident,"  but  the  term  em- 
ployed in  the  statute  is  "inhabitant."  It  is  a  word 
somewhat  rare  In  our  State  legislation,  being  generally 
confined  to  international  law.  I  have  spent  some  time 
in  trying  to  make  out  what  reason  there  might  be  for 
Its  use  here,  but  have  never  been  able  to  discover.  It 
Is  used,  however,  and  a  draughtsman  should  always 
follow  the  statute.  Remember  that.  Son) — '  that  he  Is 
the  sole  and  separate  owner  of  a  certain  female  slave 
named  Mabel,  of  the  age  of  fifty ;  or  thereabouts  ' — 
(I  never  know'd  her  age  exactly ;  but  with  that  white 
hair  she'll  bear  fifty  as  well  as  any  other  figure,  and 
there's  generally  less  objection  to  freein*  a  slave  of  that 
age,  than  one  younger,  'specially  if  it 's  a  woman,) — 
'  that  the  said  petitioner  is  desirous  of  emancipating 
the  female  slave  aforesaid,  in  the  manner  prescribed  by 
law,  and  is  ready,  willing,  and  able  to  comply  with  the 
conditions  legally  attaching  to  such  emancipation. 

" '  Your  Petitioner  further  shows  that  he  has  given 
due  notice  of  his  Intention,  by  Public  Advertisement, 
in  the  manner  and  form  required  by  law. 

" '  Your  Petitioner,  therefore,  prays  this  Honorable 
Court,  to  grant  to  him  leave  to  manumit  and  set  free 
the  aforesaid   female  slave,  "  Mabel,"  upon  your  Peti- 


MORTUA  MAN  US.  63 

tioner  entering  into  bond  with  sufficient  security,  con- 
ditioned for  the  good  behaviour  of  said  slave,  while 
she  shall  remain  in  the  State  after  her  emancipation, 
and  that  she  shall  depart  therefrom  within  ninety  days 
from  the  granting  of  this  Petition,  according  to  the 
statute  in  such  cases  made  and  provided. 

'And  your  Petitioner  will  ever  pray,'  &c. 

"There,  now,  let  me  sign  it,"  and  the  old  man  took 
the    pen,  and  wrote   in   characters  whose   strength  was 
somewhat  marred  by  the  uncertainties  of  age,  "Manuel- 
Hunter." 

"  Now  for  the  advertisement,  for  this  is  only  half," 
said  he,  as  he  removed  his  "  specs  "  and  leaned  back 
in  his  easy  chair. 

Geoffrey  resumed  his  pen,  and  wrote  to  his  father's 
dictation  as  follows : 

"  To  whom  it  may  concern  : 

"  You  are  hereby  notified  that  the  undersigned,  being 
the  sole  and  separate  owner  of  a  certain  female  slave, 
named  "  Mabel,"  will  petition  the  Honorable  Superior 
Court  to  be  held  in  and  for  the  County  of  Cold 
Spring,  at  its  next  term,  to  be  held  on  the  sixth  Mon- 
day after  the  first  Monday  in  March  next,  for  leave  to 
emancipate  the  same." 

Signed,  Manuel  Hunter. 

"  Now  you  want  to  draw  up  exactly  the  same  pa- 
pers, in  Toinette's  case,  only  changing  the  names  and 
age,"  the  old  man  said.  "  The  advertisement  you  must 
publish  for  six  weeks  in  the  Gazette — there's  just  time 
to  do  it  before  the  term." 


64  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

And  so  the  papers  were  duly  prepared,  to  set  in 
motion  the  machinery  of  the  law,  which  was  to  trans- 
form the  chattels-r<f^7/ — Mabel  and  Toinette — into  self- 
directing  human  beings;  and  the  same  were  duly  filed 
in  the  office  of  the  Clerk  of  the  Superior  Court  of  the 
County  of  Cold  Spring,  at  the  Courthouse  in  Perham, 
in  the  good  State  of  North   Carolina. 

The  road  to  Lovett  Lodge  seemed  shorter  than  ever 
before  to  Geoffrey  Hunter  that  night.  The  silly  fool 
flattered  himself  that  he  was  doing  an  act  of  most 
unusual  charity  towards  a  fellow-creature,  who  had 
appealed  strongly  and  peculiarly  to  his  sympathies. 
He  did  not  think  the  act  would  be  a  curse  to  the  girl. 
He  did  not  expect  her  to  regard  it  in  that  light,  and, 
strangely  enough,  he  did  not  once  dream  that  she  would 
refuse  the  charity  he  designed  to  offer  her.  But  he  did 
not  mean  she  should  know  it  at  present.  It  would  do 
her  no  good.  She  would  just  grow  lazy  and  dissatis- 
fied with  her  present  condition  if  she  were  told.  It 
would  be  time  enough  to  inform  her  when  the  act  of 
emancipation  was  completed. 

He  did  not  consider  that  he  was  a  dangerous  Jac- 
obin, thus  to  break  up  and  disturb  the  normal  con- 
dition of  things  in  the  patriarchal  South;  that  his 
act  was  a  step  toward  the  recognition  of  "  the  nigger " 
as  a  human  being,  an  independent  moral  entity,  instead 
of  an  article  of  merchandise;  that  he  was  striking  a 
blow  at  the  relations  of  master  and  slave  on  which  the 
harmony  and  prosperity  of  society  depended;  that  he 
was,  in  short,  in  great  danger  of  becoming  that  terrible 
thing,  an   Abolitionist.     He  did  not  think,  in  reflecting 


MORTUA  MAN  US.  65 

upon  what  he  had  done  for  Toinette,  of  the  Incapacity 
of  her  race  for  self-support  and  self-protection.  He 
did  not  conjecture  the  possibility  of  her  becoming  a 
vagabond,  houseless  and  homeless,  without  means,  char- 
acter, or  friends,  because  she  had  no  master.  And  yet 
this  is  the  picture  any  one  of  his  gentlemanly  neighbors 
would  have  drawn  for  him. 

As  he  rode  home  that  day,  Geoffrey  Hunter  pic- 
tured to  himself  a  little  cottage  in  one  of  the  Western 
free  States,  nice  and  cosy,  with  fruit  and  flowers,  where 
Mabel  and  her  daughter  Toinette,  the  faithful  servitors 
of  his  dead  mother,  should  live  in  peace  and  content- 
ment. More  and  more,  as  he  dwelt  upon  the  idea,  was 
he  inclined  to  forget  the  monstrous  anomaly  which  the 
common  law  borrowed  from  the  Roman,  ^'' Ho?}io  sed 
non  persona^''  and  applied  with  redoubled  stringency 
to  the  American  slave.  Was  it  because  he  recognized 
instinctively  its  falsity.^  Or  was  it  because  Geoffrey 
Hunter  was  eccentric — all  the  Hunters  were — and  this 
was  an  eccentricity? 


CHAP  TER    VI. 

NOT      IN      THE      BOND. 

THAT  night  Geoffrey  called  old  Maggie  to  the 
library,  and  told  her  his  plans  about  Toinette, 
as  far  as  he  knew  them.  Overwhelming  astonishment 
closed  the  old  nurse's  mouth,  or  she  would  have  inter- 
rupted him  frequently  during  the  narration.  As  it  was, 
only  short  ejaculations  of  surprise  and  gratification 
escaped  her;  but,  when  he  had  finished  with  the  ques 
tion : 

"  And  now.  Auntie,  do  you  understand  my  idea  "i  " 
"Oh  law,  yes,  Mass 'r  Geoffrey,"  said  the  old  wo- 
man. "  De  good  Lor'  be  praised !  Understan'  you  ?  I 
reckon  I  does.  You  jes'  wants  tu  larn  Toinette  to  be 
a  lady  an'  not  let  her  know  all  de  time  but  what  she  's 
a  slave.  It 's  a  mighty  hard  ting  tu  do,  Mass'r  Geoffrey, 
but  we  jes  try,  de  bes'  we  knows.  Dat's  all.  Lor',  Lor*, 
how  proud  I  is !  De  boy  I  nuss  gwine  tu  do  dis  ting ! 
Ole  Maggie  feel  mos'  as  good  ez  ef  she  was  a  gal  agin 
an'  gwine  to  be  sot  free  herself.  She  don't  want  to  be 
free  now  " — seeing  an  inquiring  look  on  Geoffrey's  face. 
"  She  's  tu  ole,  an'  'sides  dat  she  could  n't  leave  you, 
Honey.  No  more  she  could  n't,  now  she  's  got  you  back 
again."  "But,"  said  she,  returning  to  the  subject  she 
had  left,   "  whar  's   ye   gwine   to   put   Toinette  ?      She  '11 


NOT  IN  THE  BOND.  67 

hev  tu  lodge  somewhar  besides  with  ole  Maggie,  if  she  's 
gwine  to  be  free  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Geoffrey,  "I  wish  her  to  be  lodged  and 
treated  in  accordance  with  my  plans  for  her  future,  and 
so  as  to  promote  them  as  much  as  possible." 

"Dat's  what  I  thought,"  said  Maggie,  "an  so  I'll 
jes  fix  up  a  room  over  the  dining-room  for  her.  Ther  's 
one  right  comfortable  an'  tidy  thar.  An'  that  minds 
me,  Mass'r  Geoffrey,  dat  I  foun'  annudder  room  in  dis 
house  to-day,  jes  by  accident,  dat  I  reckon  you  nebber 
saw." 

"  Another  room !  "  said  Geoffrey,  "  you  don't  mean 
to  say  that  there  's  any  secret  closet  about  the  Lodge, 
do  you,  Maggie?  " 

"  No,  not  'zactly  a  closet,  but  a  room  dat  I  nebber 
dreamed  of  afore,"  said  the  old  nurse. 

"  A  secret  room,  where  is  it  ?  I  thought  nothing 
could  be  hidden  here.  I  must  see  this  curiosity  at 
once,"   said   Geoffrey. 

"Oh,  not  to-night,  Honey!  Wait  till  mornin',"  said 
the  old  nurse,  hastily.  "  I  '11  show  it  tu  ye  in  the  mornin', 
honey.     Ole  nuss'  rheumatis  proper  bad  to-night." 

"  O,  Pshaw  on  your  fears,  Auntie,"  said  Geoffrey, 
taking  up  the  tallow  dip  from  the  library-table,  "the 
room  is  not  haunted  as  well  as  secret,  is  it .''  " 

"  De  good  Lor'  only  knows  dat,  shore,  but  ole  Alag- 
gie  doesn't  want  to  go  dar  to-night,  nohow,  Mass'r 
Geoffrey,"  said  the  nurse. 

"Well,  well,  only  show  me  the  door,  and  you  need 
not  go  in.  I  '11  go  in  alone.  Come,  where  is  it }  "  said 
Geoffrey. 


68  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

"  De  door  opens  right  out  of  dis  room,"  she  an- 
swered, without  getting  up. 

"  Out   of  this  room !     Impossible,"  said  Geoffrey. 

For  a  full  understanding  of  the  references  which  will 
be  made  to  Lovett  Lodge  and  its  architectural  fea- 
tures, a  description  of  that  structure  will  be  necessary. 
It  was  of  a  style  very  frequent  in  the  region  where  our 
tale  is  located.  The  main  building  was  of  brick,  two 
stories  high,  built  upon  base-wall  of  considerable  eleva- 
tion, so  that  the  porch,  which  ran  along  the  front  on 
a  level  with  the  ground-floor,  was  raised  upon  brick 
pillars  three  or  four  feet  high. 

There  were  three  large  rooms  below,  two  in  front, 
— the  "living  room,"  as  it  is  called,  or  sitting-room, 
and  parlor,  w^ith  a  wide  hall  between,  which  opened  on 
a  porch  running  along  one  side  of  the  great  dining- 
room  in  the  rear.  A  servant's  lodging-room  and  a 
great  pantry  or  store-room  opened  off  the  dining-room. 
The  rooms  were  all  large  and  high,  evidently  built  for 
coolness,  rather  than  warmth.  Each  gable  was  bisected 
by  a  huge  chimney  built  upon  the  outside  of  the  house 
and  opening  its  capacious  jaws  upon  a  line  with  the 
walls  of  the  room,  so  that  the  fireplaces  were  not  in  the 
several  rooms,  but  adjoining  them. 

The  library  was  of  wood,  a  story  and  a  half  high, 
and  abutted  on  the  east  side  of  the  sitting-room.  Its  . 
floor  was  of  the  same  level,  and  it  was  supported  on 
brick  pillars  like  the  porch.  It  had  been  used  as  a 
library  before  the  Hunters  came  into  possession  of  the 
Lodge.  It  had  evidently  been  built  at  a  later  day  than 
the  main  building,  and  seemed  to  have  been  constructed 


2\fOT  IN  THE  BOND.  69 

for  the  very  purpose  for  which  it  was  used.  It  opened 
on  the  portico  which  ran  along  in  front,  and  also  had 
a  door  communicating  with  the  sitting-room.  It  had 
but  one  window,  a  large  one,  reaching  to  the  floor,  on 
the  east  end.  Upon  either  side  of  the  front  door-way 
was  the  counterpart  of  this  window  in  appearance 
from  without,  but  the  wall  was  solid,  and  the  green 
blinds  outside  were  only  an  illusion.  There  were  two 
of  these  false  windows  also  upon  the  back  side  of 
the  building,  and  one  upon  the  east  end,  designed,  it 
was  supposed,  to  break  the  monotony  of  the  blank 
wall.  As  one  stood  in  the  front  door-way  the  fire- 
place was  in  the  right-hand  corner,  opposite,  and  its 
flue  ran  up  into  the  great  chimney  of  the  sitting-room, 
though  the  two  were  separate  below.  To  the  left  of 
this  was  an  immense  oaken  wardrobe,  which  looked 
as  much  a  part  of  the  framework  of  the  house  as 
the  chimney  itself,  reaching  from  floor  to  ceiling,  and 
from  the  side  of  the  chimney  to  the  wall  opposite. 
Upon  the  side  towards  the  chimney  it  w^as  divided  into 
shelves  and  cupboards  for  papers,  and  in  the  corner 
next  the  vrall  it  was  wardrobe  proper — a  very  conven- 
ient piece  of  furniture  to  occupy  a  place  in  a  country 
gentleman's  private  office  and  library.  The  rest  of  the 
walls  were  covered  with  open  book-shelves. 

"  You  've  been  dreaming,  Maggie.  There  's  no 
door  opening  from  this  room  except  into  the  sitting- 
room  and  porch,"  said   Geoffrey. 

"Yes,  dar  is,"  said  the  old  woman  positively.  "  Ole 
Maggie  wa' n't  a-dreamin'  when  she  found  it.  But 
wait  till  mornin',  Honey — do  now,  dat  's  a  dear — jes  to 


70  A  ROYAL  gentleman: 

please  de  pore  ole  nuss,  dat  's  got  de  rheumatism 
so." 

"Oh,  bother  the  rheumatism,  Auntie.  It  won't  be 
any  better  by  dayUght  than  now.  I  am  going  to  see 
this  curiosity  before  I  sleep,  so  where 's  the  door .? " 
said  Geoffrey. 

"In  de  wardrobe,  Mass'r  Geoffrey,  ef  ye  mus*  know; 
but  do  n't  go  in  dar  to-night — do  n't,  please.  De  ole 
Boy  hisself  may  be  in  dar,  fur  all  ole  nuss  knows  t' 
contrary.  Oh  Lor' !  oh  Lor' ! "  she  exclaimed,  as  he 
opened  the  door  of  the  wardrobe,  springing  from  her 
chair  and  running  toward  him  in  a  style  that  promised 
well  for  her  speedy  recovery.  "  Did  n't  ye  hear  dat, 
Honey  .^  Do  n'tj  don't,  Mass'r  Geoffrey!  It's  de 
den  o'  sarpints,  shore." 

"  Hear  what }  "  he  asked,  listening  and  looking  at 
her  frightened  visage.  "  I  heard  nothing  but  your  con- 
founded clatter.  There  's  no  door  here,"  he  continued, 
holding  the  candle  above  his  head  and  inspecting  the 
interior  of  the  wardrobe. 

"Dar,  dar,"  said  the  old  nurse,  in  desperation,  "  ef 
ye  mus'  go  to  de  debble,  go.  Lift  dat  knob  dar,  'n 
see  ef  ye  don't  bleve  ole  Maggie  den." 

She  pointed  to  a  wooden  knob  precisely  like  the 
others,  and  apparently  designed  for  the  same  use. 
Raising  this  a  short  distance,  the  back  of  the  ward- 
robe opened  and  disclosed  a  small  but  comfortable 
room,  with  a  wood  fire  burning  on  the  hearth  and  a 
chair  standing  before  it.  The  rush  of  air  from  the 
sudden  opening  of  the  door  put  out  the  light,  and 
Geoffrey,  after  standing  a  moment  to  recover  from   his 


NOT  IN  THE  BOND,  71 

astonishment,  went  back  to  the  grate  to  relight  it,  old 
Maggie  clinging  to  his  coat  and  calling  upon  the  Lord 
with  exemplary  energy.  Having  'relighted  the  candle, 
he  returned  and  examined  the  newly-discovered  room. 
It  had  once  been  considerably  used,  as  was  evident 
from  its  aspect ;  and  the  furniture,  though  now  scanty, 
had  been  of  the  best  quality  of  the  olden  style.  It 
contained  a  bed  and  a  small  dressing-case  with  a  mir- 
ror, a  table,  and  two  chairs.  The  fire  had  evidently 
been  burning  for  several  hours,  though  Aunt  Maggie 
declared  she  had  seen  none  when  she  was  in  the  room. 
There  did  not  appear  to  Geoffrey,  after  careful  exam- 
ination, to  be  any  other  door  than  the  one  by  which 
they  had  entered. 

How  Aunt  Maggie  came  to  find  this  room,  she 
could  scarcely  tell.  "  Jes  by  accident,"  she  said,  "cos 
Mass'r  Geoffrey's  coat  hung  to  de  knob  when  I  went 
to  take  it  down."  She  had  lighted  a  candle  and  came 
cautiously  into  the  room,  looking  hastily  about.  She 
said  there  was  wood  in  the  fireplace  but  no  fire  at  that 
time.  Geoffrey  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  she  must 
have  accidentally  lighted  it  and  had  forgotten  that  she 
had  done  so,  thus  producing  this  startling  appearance 
of  occupancy  which  met  them  on  their  entrance.  He 
also  concluded  that  the  room  had  been  unused  for 
several  years — perhaps  its  very  existence  unknown  to 
those  who  had  lately  occupied  the  mansion.  Thinking 
it  might  be  well  that  the  existence  of  this  room  should 
be  kept  as  quiet  as  possible,  he  cautioned  Maggie 
to  say  nothing  about  it,  and,  on  going  out,  locked 
the   wardrobe    door    and    put    the   key   in   his   pocket.  . 


72  A  J^ OVAL  GENTLEMAN, 

What  the  room  had  been  used  for  he  did  not  know, 
but  it  occurred  to  him  at  once  that  here  was  a  place 
where  he  could  conduct  the  education  of  Toinette  and 
no  one  be  the  wiser  but  herself.  He  was  determined  she 
should  be  educated,  and  although  it  was  all  well  enough 
that  his  mother,  then  a  helpless  invalid,  should  teach 
a  little  "  yaller "  gal  to  read,  that  she  might  spell  out 
the  Psalms  and  Gospels  to  her  sick  mistress,  he  knew 
very  well  that  it  would  not  do  to  have  it  known  in 
the  country  that  Geoffrey  Hunter  had  turned  tutor  to 
one  of  his  own  "she-niggers."  He  might  work  her  night 
and  day,  flog  and  starve  and  make  her  the  mother  of 
his  children,  tear  them  from  her  breast  and  sell  them 
to  toil  and  shame  again,  and  all  would  be  well — the 
foundations  of  society  would  still  be  secure ;  but  teach 
her  to  read  and  write,  educate  one  of  them  !  Oh,  he 
knew !  He  was  Southern-born  and  was  only  trying  an 
experiment  for  the  simple  fun  of  the  thing.  He  be- 
lieved in  slavery  himself — not  so  firmly  as  some,  per- 
haps, not  so  clearly  as  he  did  in  his  own  existence, 
nor  carried  to  its  worst  lengths,  but  enough  for  all 
practical  purposes.  He  hated  the  "speculator  "  and  the 
overseer.  They  were  excrescences  of  the  system  and 
arose  from  its  abuses.  He  held  that  when  slavery  be- 
came gregarious,  when  it  passed  beyond  the  stage  in 
which  the  master  and  slave  were  in  some  sense — often 
a  kind  and  intimate  one — members  of  the  same  family, 
then  it  became  unchristian  and  barbarous.  The  great 
barracoons  of  the  richer  planters,  termed  "  quarters," 
with  the  entire  system  of  overseers  and  drivers,  he 
looked  upon  with  distrust.     It   was  stripping   the  slave 


NOT  IN  THE  BOND.  73 

of  all  humanity  and  extending  the  idea  of  chattelism 
to  a  point  too  close  to  that  of  irrational  beasts  for 
him  to  approve.  He  remembered  to  have  heard  that 
his  father  had  advocated  the  same  ideas  very  strong- 
ly when  he  was  young,  though  he  had  consider- 
ably relaxed  in  practice  of  late  years.  Was  it  because 
Manuel  Hunter  was  richer  now  ?  He,  Geoffrey,  was 
not  going  to  do  anything  for  the  negro  race ;  he  would 
have  scorned  the  imputation :  but  he  meant  simply  to 
carry  out  his  own  idea,  his  whim ;  and,  of  course,  to 
fulfill  his  mother's  request. 

This  Christmas  time  had  more  than  its  usual  share 
of  strange  and  ghostly  experiences.  A  weird  pres- 
ence, that  of  a  woman,  clad  in  gray,  with  noiseless 
footsteps,  and  who  made  no  shadow  in  the  winter 
moonlight,  had  terrified  the  servants  at  "  The  Home," 
and  some  rabbit-hunters  had  beheld  a  similar  presence 
sitting  on  the  ruins  of  an  old  house  near  Lovett 
Lodge.  It  seemed  as  if  the  nights  of  "that  season 
wherein  our  Saviour's  birth  is  celebrated "  had  not 
only  ceased  to  be  "wholesome,"  but  had  become  the 
very  carnival  time  of  ghostliness. 

Toinette  was  soon  a  fixture  at  Lovett  Lodge. 
Maggie  installed  her  in  one  of  the  upper  back  rooms, 
and  a  white  woman  who  lived  in  an  old  log-house  on 
Geoffrey's  land,  obtaining  her  sustenance  by  taking  in 
sewing  and  various  other  uncertain  devices,  was  sent 
for  to  come  and  make  up  the  Christmas  gift  for  the 
new  pet.  Aunt  Maggie  had  the  management  of  the 
affair,  and  seeing  that  the  woman's  curiosity  was  ex- 
cited, she  did  not  hesitate  to  tell  her  that  it  would  be 


7i  J  A' OVAL  GENTLEMAN. 

well  for  her  to  use  due  discretion  in  speaking  of  the 
matter,  or  she  "  would  git  out  o'  dat'  ar  house  mighty 
quick  an'  git  prosecutioned  besides." 

"  Oh,  no  danger  of  me,"  the  woman  said,  with  a 
leer,  and  rubbing  her  dipping-stick  about  in  the  box 
of  snuff  she  held.  "  No  danger  of  her ;  she  had  lived 
on  tliat  place  nigh  twenty  years,  jes  becos'  she  could 
hold  her  tongue.  People  might  do  what  they  pleased. 
She  didn't  keer  so  long's  they  didn't  'lest  her.  An' 
she  had  seen  strange  things  there  in  her  time,  but 
't  was  none  o'  her  business.  No,  she  was  n't  gwine  to 
tell  on  't,  though  them  as  did  'em  was  dead  an'  gone, 
or  dead  at  least — p'raps  not  gone  'zactly.  She'd  heard 
—but  then  it  wa'n't  none  of  her  business.  They'd  find 
out  soon  enough.  'T  was  n't  the  fust  time  she  'd  come 
there  to  make  ladies'  dresses,  for  them  as  wa'n't  all 
white,  an'  mightn't  be  the  last.  She'd  always  been 
well  paid  for 't,  an*  that  was  enough.  She  was  hired 
to  sow  clothes  an'  not  to  sow  tares — as  the  Hard-shelU 
minister  used  to  talk  about.  He,  he !  "  The  well- 
laden  snuff-brush,  with  its  burden  of  "Carolina  Belle," 
found  its  way  into  her  mouth,  the  blackened  fangs 
closed  on  it,  and  cut  short  the  chuckle. 

So  Toinette  was  domesticated  at  the  Lodge,  ap- 
parently as  a  sort  of  sinecured  assistant  of  old  Mag- 
gie, with  next  to  nothing  to  do,  and  every  possible 
liberty;  as  the  protegee  and  pupil  of  Geoffrey  Hunter, 
according  to  his  own  dictum,  when  speaking  to  himself 
in  the  library  ;  as  his  present  pet  and  future  mistress, 
so  said  the  little  world  which  knew  something  of  the 
internal  economy  of  Lovett  Lodge.     Which  was  right.'' 


NOT  IN  THE  BOND.  75 

The    young    visionary,   or   the   cool,   calculating  world, 
which  judges  others  harshly  because  itself  so  vile? 

Affairs  progressed  satisfactorily  for  several  weeks. 
Toinette — half  child,  half  woman — accustomed  to  priv- 
ilege, as  the  petted  servant  of  Mistress  Ruth  in  the 
Hunter  menage^  was  not  long  in  falling  into  the  niche 
which  Geoffrey  had  designed  for  her.  In  her  new  and 
becoming  clothing  she  had  more  the  appearance  of  a 
bashful  child  than  a  privileged  servant.  Old  Maggie 
wondered  how  the  girl  could  unconsciously  adapt  her- 
self to  the  required  position  so  easily.  But  the  effort 
on  the  part  of  the  young  master  was  most  apparent. 
He  could  not,  consistently  with  his  own  views,  treat  her 
as  an  equal,  nor  did  it  suit  his  purpose  to  regard  her 
altogether  as  a  menial.  Her  easy  acceptance  of  the 
role  of  petted  slave-child  and  her  artless  trust  in  him 
and  affection  for  his  brave  Newfoundlander  were  prob- 
ably all  that  saved  him  from  a  renunciation  of  his 
scheme,  as  soon  as  he  came  to  realize  the  difficult  role 
it  imposed  on  himself.  He  soon  found  that  she  could 
be  allowed  to  regard  his  purposed  preparation  as  a  sort 
of  play  on  her  part,  and  as  there  was  but  little  com- 
pany at  the  Lodge,  there  was  no  fear  of  her  being 
seen  while  engaged  in  the  dangerous  act  of  spelling 
out  the  Cadmean  mysteries.  So,  while  Greoffrey  sat 
in  the  library  engaged  in  mastering  the  musty  lore  of 
the  common  law,  Toinette  was  intent  upon  the  tasks 
which  Mass'r  Geoffrey  imposed,  "  to  keep  her  out  of 
mischief,"  he  said.  After  supper  in  the  great  room, 
while  Maggie  cleared  away  the  things,  he  would  ques- 
tion her  upon  her  day's  studies.     It  was  not  very  dig- 


76  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

nified,  a  young  country  squire  teaching  one  of  his 
"yaller  gals;"  but  somehow  he  soon  grew  fond  of  his 
evening  task,  and  was  irritable  if  anything  prevented 
him  from  discharging  it. 

Old  Maggie  would  finish  her  work  and  sit  down 
in  the  corner  of  the  fireplace,  with  her  high  turban 
and  sooty  face,  beaming  with  benignity,  and  between 
the  whiffs  on  her  short  pipe,  exclaim,  "  Law  sakes ! 
how  dat  ar  chile  du  larn ! "  And  Geoffrey  himself 
was  forced  to  acknowledge  a  wonderful  capacity  for 
acquisition  in  "that  fly-about  Toinette." 


CHAPTER    VII.. 

MYSTERY. 

GEOFFREY  HUNTER'S  favorite  recreation  was 
music,  and  of  this  he  was  passionately  fond.  Be- 
sides possessing  a  fine  tenor  voice,  which  had  been 
trained  and  cultivated  under  the  best  masters,  he  was 
a  skillful  performer  upon  several  instruments.  Almost 
the  first  piece  of  furniture  he  had  brought  to  Lovett 
Lodge,  when  he  came  to  superintend  the  plantation, 
was  a  piano,  which  occupied  a  corner  of  the  great  sit- 
ting-room. It  had  been  a  favorite  amusement  during 
the  summer  and  fall,  to  open  the  doors  and  windows 
and  play  for  the  entertainment  of  the  servants  and  any 
friends  they  might  have  visiting  them.  Not  unfre- 
quently  the  porch  and  wide  gravel-path  in  front  were 
the  scene  of  a  jolly  break-down,  executed  by  the  de- 
lighted darkies. 

After  the  first  harsh  weather  of  Christmas  had  con- 
tinued a  day  or  two,  it  moderated,  and  that  glory  of  a 
Carolina  winter  came  on,  a  period  of  vernal  mildness 
and  loveliness,  when  we  look  for  chill  and  gloom — the 
days  bright  and  balmy  as  April,  and  the  nights  frosty 
but  clear  and  radiant  as  September. 

Bob  was  therefore  commissioned  by  the  other  serv- 
ants to  ask  Mass'r  Geoffrey  to  give  them  permission 
to   dance  on    the    porch    and    in    the    yard  during  the 


78  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

Christmas,  and  to  get  him  to  play  some  of  "  dem  nice 
jig  tunes  on  de  pianner."  The  leave  was  readily  ac- 
corded, and  during  the  rest  of  the  holidays  the  nightly 
carousal  of  the  blacks  was  sure  to  begin  with  a  break- 
down on  the  porch. 

At  these  times  Geoffrey  could  not  but  notice  the 
rapt  attention  his  pfotege'e  gave  to  his  performance  at 
the  piano.  When  he  could  overcome  her  shyness  suf- 
ficiently to  induce  her  to  accompany  him  in  some  of 
the  familiar  tunes  his  mother  had  taught  her,  he  was 
surprised  at  the  vocal  power  she  displayed  and  at  the 
wonderful  facility  with  which  she  acquired  both  words 
and  music.  He  was  a  good  musician,  and,  like  most 
performers  fully  appreciated  the  silent  tribute  of  the 
slave  girl's  admiration,  whom  he  soon  began  to  recog- 
nize as  one  equally  gifted  with  himself  in  musical  ca- 
pacity. Whatever  precept  or  example  offered  her,  she 
seized  with  an  amazing  avidity.  Ear  and  voice  seemed 
equally  faultless,  and  Geoffrey  Hunter  felt  the  pride 
an  artist  always  has  in  a  gifted  pupil,  as  he  taught 
her,  one  after  another,  his  favorite  songs.  The  girl,  if 
properly  trained,  he  admitted,  would  need  nobody's  care 
when  freed.  That  glorious  voice  and  rich  physique 
would,  when  fully  developed,  prove  a  fortune  on  the 
stage.  In  addition  to  a  correct  ear  and  fine  voice  she 
seemed  also  to  have  that  faultless  intuition  which  ever 
gives  to  genius  the  power  of  rendering  feeling  correctly. 
His  surprise  soon  began  to  ripen  into  a  sort  of  respect, 
and  he  was  daily  in  danger  of  forgetting  that  the 
gifted  being,  whose  powers  were  unfolding  under  his 
kindly  touch,  was  a  creature  of  an  inferior  race,  and, 


M  YSTER  Y.  79 

withal,  his  property.  Every  now  and  then  he  caught 
himself  picturing  for  her  a  great  and  enviable  future, 
the  reward  of  her  own  powers  developed  and  utilized. 
He  came  to  look  forward  to  their  cheerful  evening 
concerts,  when  the  supper  had  been  cleared  away,  in 
the  great  room,  with  no  little  anticipation. 

Meanwhile  Toinette  seemed  to  have  lost  all  other 
thought  except  that  of  rapt  admiration,  almost  worship, 
for  Geoffrey  Hunter.  She  never  forgot  that  he  was  of 
a  superior  race=  She  remembered  it,  and  hated  and 
loathed  the  drop  of  darker  blood  which  like  the  "juice 
of  cursed  Hebanon,"  coursed  through  the  natural  gates 
and  alleys  of  her  body,  transforming  and  degrading  all 
the  nobler  blood.  She  paid  daily  and  hourly  tribute 
unto  Caesar,  the  myriad-minded  monarch,  whose  per- 
fections charmed  her  inexperienced  thought,  and,  to 
her  eyes,  crowned  his  brow  with  the  beauty  of  an  un- 
attainable perfection.  With  great  wondering  eyes  she 
watched  him  as  he  played ;  with  enraptured  ears  she 
listened  while  he  read ;    and  when  he  spoke 

•'  It  seemed  that  an  angel  had  brightened  the  sod, 
And  brought  to  her  bosom  a  message  from  God." 

In  everything  he  was  to  her  a  great  glorious  being — 
a  revelation  of  immaculate,  white  humanity — her  Mas- 
ter. She  felt  a  sense  of  ownership  in  him.  He  was 
her  Mass'  Geoffrey  !  What  a  privilege  to  have  such  a 
master !  How  gladly  she  obeyed  him,  and  when  any- 
thing pleased  him  how  carefully  she  noted  it !  Was 
it  not  enough  to  be  the  petted  servant  of  such  a  di- 
vinity !  Her  mind  was  not  disturbed  by  any  "  com- 
mon   humanity "   theories.     She  was    content   to   be   a 


80  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

slave  if  she  could  only  serve  Mass'r  Geoff.  She  never 
dreamed  of  being  the  "equal"  of  her  demi-god.  She 
would  like  to  be,  of  course;  but  then  she  was  not; 
She  was  only  a  "nigger,"  with  a  little  white  mixed  in. 
God  only  knew  what  for,  and  yet  she  was  glad  it  was 
there,  for  she  had  an  idea  that  she  would  not  have 
been  permitted  to  behold  the  unveiled  glories  of  human 
perfection,  in  the  person  of  Geoffrey  Hunter,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  this  admixture  of  Saxon  blood.  Thus, 
the  master  was  losing  the  arrogance  of  the  owner  in  the 
interest  of  the  instructor,  and  the  slave  was  merging 
the  servility  of  the  chattel  in  the  absorption  of  the 
devotee. 

A  month  had  passed,  and  it  seemed  to  Toinette 
but  a  day  since  she  had  come  into  that  paradise  for 
"pet  niggers,"  Lovett  Lodge.  One  night  after  they 
had  been  practising  a  favorite  song  which  Geoffrey 
was  teaching  her,  he  praised  her  effort,  and  told  her 
if  she  were  attentive  and  tried  very  hard  she  would 
sometime  be  as  good  a  musician  as  himself.  She  stared 
incredulously.  Nevertheless,  she  was  gratified,  and 
when  he  dashed  off  in  a  merry  waltz,  which  woke  old 
Maggie,  who  had  been  nodding  in  the  corner,  with  a 
start,  she  seized  the  paws  of  old  Leon  and  danced 
about  with  him  for  a  partner,  until  both  the  lookers-on 
were  convulsed  with  laughter  at  their  antics.  Happen- 
ing to  go  near  one  of  the  large  uncurtained  windows 
opening  on  the  porch,  and  chancing  to  glance  up  at  it, 
she  stood  an  instant  as  if  frozen  in  her  tracks,  and  then, 
with  shriek  after  shriek,  fled  behind  the  player,  exclaim- 
ing:  "Don't  let  'em!  don't  let  'em,  Mass'r  Geoff!" 


MYSTERY.  81 

Almost  simultaneously  old  Maggie  made  her  first 
effort  in  tragedy,  and,  considering  her  previous  train- 
ing, the  debut  was  certainly  successful.  Rising  from 
her  chair  with  that  sickly  pallor  and  rigidity  of  feature 
which  intense  excitement  produces  in  the  African,  lean- 
ing forward  and  gazing  with  a  terrified  stare  at  the 
window,  she  pointed  toward  it  with  her  hand  and  ex- 
claimed in  a  half-whispered  shriek :  "  Dar,  dar,  Mass'r 
Geoffrey  !  Look  dar  !  Oh,  de  good  Lord  !  Lord  save 
us!     O  Lo'ddy!  O  Lo'ddy!" 

Geoffrey  stopped  playing,  with  a  start,  and  glanced 
at  the  window  to  which  Maggie  pointed,  not  because 
she  was  pointing  there,  (for  he  did  not  look  to  see 
the  direction  of  her  hand,)  but  from  that  instinctive 
impulse  by  which  the  eye  is  ofttimes  guided  to  see  the 
horrible  or  supernatural.  He  caught  a  glimpse,'  only, 
of  a  figure  moving  swiftly  and  noiselessly  along  the 
porch. 

Geoffrey  Hunter  was  no  coward,  but  the  supersti- 
tions of  his  native  Souih  were  woven  in  with  the  warp 
of  his  existence.  The  tales  which  rest  upon  the  lips 
of  every  slave-nurse  had  constituted  a  large  part  of 
the  fairy-land  of  his  youn^  thoughts.  He  had  out- 
grown his  fear  of  "  ghosts  ana  spirits,"  as  a  deliberate 
thing,  and  would  have  laughea  at  such  an  accusation,  if 
it  had  not  enraged  him ;  but  sprung  upon  him  suddenly, 
the  bias  of  childhood  showed  its  power.  His  hands 
were  glued  to  the  depressed  keys,  his  heart  gave  a 
great  start,  cold  chills  ran  over  him,  and  with  bristling 
hair  he  sat  gazing  at  the  window.  Behind  him  on  the 
floor,  sobbing   and    quaking,  with   hands    pressed   over 


82  A   ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

her  eyes,  was  Toinette;  before  the  fire,  sunk  now  upon 
her  knees,  was  Maggie,  uttering  incoherent  prayers. 
Outside,  the  moon  shone,  clear  and  cold,  upon  the 
porch,  and  the  squeaking  noise  made  by  the  arm  of 
the  climbing  rose,  which  reached  over  and  rubbed 
against  the  window,  was  the  only  sound.  Even  daunt- 
less old  Leon  was  crouching  with  a  cowed  look  at  his 
master's  side. 

It  was  but  a  moment.  Manhood,  firm,  strong  and 
re-assuring,  came  rushing  to  the  rescue  and  drove  cred- 
ulous, superstitious  Boyhood  back  into  the  dim  past. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  rushed  upon  the  porch.  He 
ran  to  the  end  and  looked  up  and  down  the  enclosure. 
The  light  of  the  full  moon  lay  still  and  clear  over  all, 
and  there  was  no  opportunity  for  concealment.  The 
figure  he  had  seen  was  certainly  going  in  that  direction, 
and  could  not  have  left  the  porch  without  having 
jumped  the  railing  and  fallen  some  six  or  eight  feet. 
He  was  puzzled.  To  add  to  his  quandary,  there,  only 
a  few  yards  from  the  foot  of  the  steps,  lay  a  large 
mastiff,  a  present  from  his  father,  who  had  especially 
recommended  him  as  a  remarkable  guard-dog,  look- 
ing quietly  up  into  his  master's  face  as  if  inquiring 
the  reason  of  this  unusual  visit  to  his  post  of  duty. 
No  one  could  have  passed  down  the  steps  without 
being  seen  by  this  dog,  and  it  was  a  thing  unheard  of, 
for  any  one  to  come  inside  the  enclosure  without  his 
giving  the   alarm. 

He  thought  a  moment,  then  went  back  to  the  great 
room,  and  without  speaking  to  the  frightened  women, 
seated  himself   again    at    the    piano,    and    rattled    off  a 


MYSTERY.  83 

half  dozen  cheery  airs  as  if  nothing  had  occurred  to 
disturb  his  equanimity.  It  was  like  sunshine  suc- 
ceeding the  vague  uncertainties  of  night,  to  the  terri- 
fied women.  He  turned  suddenly  upon  the  younger 
and  said  quietly: 

"  What  was  the  matter  with  you,  Toinette .''  " 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  apron  and  said  in  a 
horrified  voice : 

"Oh  Mass 'r  Geoff,  don't  ax  me!   don't  ax  me!" 

Then  Geoffrey  spoke  sternly,  as  a  master  should 
to  a  disobedient  servant — 

"  Toinette,  stop  this  foolery.  Come  here  and  look 
at  me." 

She  obeyed  at  once.  Had  not  her  master  spoken, 
and  was  it  not  her  duty  to  obey.?  She  would  do  his 
bidding  though  body  and  soul  perished.  She  stood 
before  him  and  looked  straight  into  his  eyes.  This 
ready  obedience  and  sudden  renunciation  of  her  fear 
surprised  him.  He  had  not  expected  and  could  not 
understand  it.  Geoffrey  Hunter  had  somewhat  to 
learn  which  the  ''favorite  yaller  gal"  had  already  ac- 
quired.   The  teacher  must  learn  of  the  pupil  sometimes. 

"  What  frightened  you,  Toinette .?  "  said  he,  kindly. 

"S'pose  'twas  a  spook  or  de  Debbie,  sir,"  she  re- 
plied promptly. 

The  quaintness  of  the  answer  brought  a  smile  to 
Geoffrey's  face,   as  he  asked : 

"  Well,  and  what  was  the  appearance  of  the  ghostly 
visitant  ? " 

"Ye  know,  Mass'r  Geoffrey,"  she  answered,  "I  was 
playin'  with    Leon,  and   he    came    atween  me  and    the 


84  A  ROYAL  gentleman; 

wall,  close  by  the  window  thar,  an'  I  happened  to  look 
up,  and  thar  stood  something  like  a  woman,  only  so 
tall  and  white,  an'  with  eyes  that  burned  like  coals  of 
fire,  lookin'  straight  at  me,  as  ef  it  wanted  to  jes  git 
hold  o*  me  an'  kill  me  dead.  And  then  I  was  so 
scart,  Mass'r  Geoffrey,  I  run  an'  hollered,  but  I 
couldn't  help  it — I  couldn't,  Mass'r  Geoff — I  couldn't." 

All  this  old  Maggie,  with  many  a  pious  ejaculation 
and  fragmentary  prayer,  confirmed,  adding  that  "  it 
was  jes  all  white  from  top  to  bottom,  all  up  an'  down 
de  winder,  an'  hed  a  face  like  a  dead  pusson,  only  de 
eyes,  dey  glistened  like  fox-fire  in  de  night,  an'  jes 
kep'  watchin'  Toinette  all  de  time  till  Mass'r  Geoffrey 
stop  playin'  an'  look  up,  an'  den  it  jes  wanish  away 
like  a  shadder  in  de  water.  Pore  chile !  pore  chile ! 
She  '11  not  live  many  days.  Her  time 's  nigh  come. 
It  's  a  shore  sign,  so  de  ole  uns  allers  tells  me,  when 
de  folks  comes  from  de  dead  in  der  grave-clothes  an' 
fastens  der  cold,  dead  eyes  on  any  particular  pusson 
deys  shore  gwine  to  die.     Pore  chile!   pore  chile!" 

"  What  did  your  ghost  have  on  its  head  1  "  queried 
Geoffrey.  "You  used  to  tell  me,  Maggie,  that  the 
spooks  always  had  their  grave-clothes  over  their  heads, 
and  found  their  way  about  without  the  aid  of  vision.^' 

"  An'  so  did  dis  one,  too,  Mass'r  Geoff,  only  de  eyes 
burn  so  bright  dey  show  right  fru,"  protested  the  old 
woman. 

"  And  the  face,"  said  the  skeptical  Geoffrey,  "  how 
about  that  ?     You  saw  that  too  .•*  " 

"  Oh,  well,  Honey,  it 's  only  a  ghost-shroud,  anyhow, 
an'  jes  show  fru  like  glass,"  said  Maggie. 


MYSTERY.  85 

"  What  do  you  say  about  it,  Toinette  ?  "  asked  Geof- 
frey of  the  young  girl,  who  had  stood  a  thoughtful 
listener  to  the  conversation  with  Maggie.  "  Did  you 
see  the  face  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  sah,"  she  replied,  "  I  saw  it  quite  plain. 
It  seemed  cold  an'  pale  an'  hard  like.  The  forehead 
was  wrinkled  an'  scowlin',  and  the  mouth  shet  close. 
Oh,  sah,  it  looked  mighty  angry  at  me,  an'  somehow  it 
seemed  as  ef  I  had  seen  the  face  afore,  a  long  time  ago." 

"  In  course  ye  has,  chile,"  said  old  Maggie.  "  One 
allers  knows  de  sperret  dat  comes  to  warn  us  ov  de  . 
end.  It 's  alius  de  'miliar  sperret  dat  de  Scriptur  tells 
on.  Pore  chile !  ye  'd  better  be  a  prayin'  den  standin* 
dar  answerin'  young  Mass'r  Geoffrey's  fool  questions, 
when  ez  like  ez  not  de  death-damp  's  comin'  on  yer 
forrid  now." 

"  Did  you  see  the  hair,  Toinette.''"  continued  Geoffrey. 

"  I  can  't  jes  remember,  sah  ;  kind  o'  'pears  like  I 
did,  an'  then  again  I  do  n't  know.  There  was  n't  no 
cap  or  bonnet  on  her  head,  an'  ef  there  was  any  hair 
't  was  white  as  snow,"  answered  Toinette. 

"  Shore  'nuff,  shore  'nuff,"  said  old  Maggie,  with  a 
start.     "  Wal,  wal,  it  mout  hev  ben  !  " 

"And  so,"  said  Geoffrey,  "you  two  silly  women 
have  made  all  this  hubbub  because  some  old  woman 
happened  to  come  and  look  in  at  the  window." 

"  Who  ever  knowed  anybody  to  come  inside  dis  yard 
an'  ole  Tige  not  bark  at  'em.?"  said  the  nurse,  con- 
temptuously. 

"  Oh,  Tige  was  asleep  and  did  not  see  her,"  said 
Geoffrey. 


86  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

**Tige  nebber  sleep  arter  sundown,"  said  the  old 
woman,  stoutly. 

"  It  's  strange  how  she  came  and  went  without  be- 
ing seen,"  he  began — 

"  Or  heard  uther,  Mass'r  Geoff,  Who  ever  knowed 
any  mortal  man  or  woman  to  go  'long  dat  dar  porch 
an'  nebber  make  noise  'nuff  to  be  heard  in  dis  yer 
room  when  ebbryting  was  still  'nuff  to  hear  an  acorn 
drop  off  de  furdest  tree  in  de  yard  ?  "  interrupted  the 
stubborn  old  servant. 

Geoffrey  could  not  answer  the  question,  and  yet  his 
reason  assured  him  of  two  facts :  First,  the  figure  at 
the  window  was  no  illusion.  His  own  view  of  it  had 
been  indistinct,  but  Toinette  and  old  Maggie  agreed  in 
all  the  essential  particulars,  and  their  testimony  was 
consistent.  Second,  he  was  convinced  that  it  was  no 
apparition.  The  grounds  for  this  belief  he  could  not 
have  stated  satisfactorily.  He  could  not  account  for 
its  sudden  and  noiseless  disappearance,  nor  for  the  un- 
usual silence  of  the  dogs,  and  yet  he  could  not  bring 
himself  to  recognize  their  strange  auditor  as  of  a  ghostly 
nature.  Somehow  the  incident  connected  itself  in  his 
mind  with  the  secret  room  back  of  the  library.  He 
had  not  been  there  since  the  night  he  had  first  ex- 
amined it.  For  some  unaccountable  reason  he  had 
shrunk  from  entering  it  again.  He  put  his  hand  in 
his  pocket  and  felt  the  key  of  the  wardrobe.  He 
would  go  and  examine  it  now.  He  rose,  and,  taking 
the  candle  from  the  table,  went  into  the  library.  Old 
Maggie  seemed  to  divine  his  purpose,  and  cried  out : 

"  Oh,    Mass'r    Geoff,    do  n't,    do  n't !       Not    to-night, 


MYSTERY.  87 

wait  till  mornin'.  Do,  please,  Mass'r  Geoff.  Dat  boy's 
contrariness  will  be  his  death,  dat  's  shore.  Den  what 
will  Mass'r  Manwell  do  to  ole  nuss,  'cause  she  did  n't 
take  keer  of  one  dat  's  jes'  as  headstrong  ez  de  ole 
debble.  'Pears  like  dat  boy  nebber  would  hear  to  no- 
body's 'vice  at  all.  Jes'  will  hev  his  own  way  'n'  it  '11 
be  de  ru 'nation  ob  him,  shore.  Good  Lor' !  I  'm  glad 
dat  great  dog  's  gone  wid  him.  'Pears  like  de  critter 
knows  most  ez  much  ez  a  human,  eny  how.  He  hez 
got  a  heap  o'  sense." 

Geoffrey  went  into  the  library  and  shut  the  door. 
He  was  alone  here,  at  the  Lodge.  Granting  that 
his  hypothesis  was  correct,  and  that  the  mysterious 
figure  at  the  window  and  the  secret  of  the  room  which 
opened  from  the  library  through  the  wardrobe  yonder 
had  some,  to  him,  occult  relation  to  each  other, 
what  was  it?  He  sat  down  by  the  dying  fire  upon 
the  library  hearth  and  asked  himself  this  question. 
Was  it  good  or  ill  the  apparition  boded  .-*  Did  that 
mysterious  watcher  have  some  sinister  design  against 
himself  that  it  thus  pried  into  the  secrets  of  his  hearth 
and  made  itself  or  herself — if,  perchance,  it  was  a  wo- 
man, which  he  did  not  for  a  moment  believe — an  oc- 
cupant of  his  house.?  For,  somehow,  he  had  never 
yet  been  able  to  convince  himself  that  the  fire  he  saw 
burning  in  the  secret  room  had  really  been  kindled 
by  old  Maggie's  carelessness,  or  by  the  hand  of  any 
legitimate  inhabitant  of  his  domicil.  Often,  since  he 
had  examined  the  room,  he  had  been  haunted  with 
the  impression,  as  he  sat  reading  in  his  great  library 
chair,   that  some  one  just  beyond  the  wall  was  keeping 


88  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

up  a  constant  and  by  no  means  friendly  espionage 
upon  his  acts.  This  night  was  not  the  first  time  that 
he  had  experienced  a  feeling  that  hostile  eyes  were 
gazing  at  him  through  the  window  of  the  sitting-room, 
as  he  sat  at  the  piano  or  heard  Toinette's  lessons. 
Several  times  he  had  thought  he  caught  a  vanishing 
glimpse  of  a  figure,  and  once  in  particular  of  what 
seemed  flowing  white  hair  or  beard.  It  all  came  to 
him  now,  and  he  reasoned  upon  the  data  carefully  and 
coolly.  The  white,  snowy  beard  or  hair  were  adopted 
for  the  occasion.  They  were  a  part  of,  or,  at  least,  in 
fine  keeping  with  the  traditional  get-up  of  a  ghostly 
character.  It  was  all  clear  to  his  mind,  except  how 
it  was  managed  and  what  was  the  motive.  He  was 
there  alone — the  only  white  man  on  the  plantation, 
and,  for  the  matter  of  that,  within  a  circuit  of  a  mile 
or  more.  He  was  reported  rich.  Was  robbery  the 
crime  intended  .'*  Hardly,  or  it  would  have  been  per- 
petrated long  ago ;  for  he  was  convinced  that  this  sys- 
tem of  espial  was  a  month  old  or  thereabouts.  What 
then.''  He  had  not  an  enemy  in  the  world.  No  man 
could  claim  that  he  had  ever  acted  dishonorably  to- 
wards him,  or  woman  lay  any  evil  at  his  door.  What 
could  be  the  motive  .-*     It  troubled  him. 

All  at  once  he  thought  of  a  solution.  Lovett  Lodge 
was  a  desirable  piece  of  property,  and  some  sharper, 
knowing  the  secret  of  the  hidden  room — perhaps  a  de- 
scendant of  the  builder — had  devised  this  trick  to  give 
the  premises  an  unenviable  reputation,  a  reputation 
which  he  knew  would  greatly  depreciate  its  value  among 
the   superstitious   people   of  the   country,  especially   as 


MYSTERY.  89 

it  would  render  it  almost  impossible  to  keep  the  igno- 
rant and  cowardly  slaves  upon  a  plantation  which  was 
believed  to  be  haunted.     Perhaps,  too,  it  was  calculated 
that  this  annoyance  would  prove  too  much  for  his  pa- 
tience, and  incline  him  to  dispose  of  it  at  a  moderate 
price.     The    theory    pleased    him.     He    ran    it    over   in 
his  mind  two  or  three  times,  pacing  back  and  forth  in 
the  library.     He  would    show  this  ingenious  trader  his 
mistake.     He  would  let  him  know  that  Geoffrey  Hun- 
ter was  not  to  be  fooled  by  any  such  shallow  trickery. 
And  if  it  were  not  more   cautiously  played,   he   would 
make  it  a  sad  game  to  the  actor.     He  took  a  revolver 
from  a  drawer  in  his  desk,  examined  the  caps,  cocked 
it,  and,    taking   the    candle,   advanced   to   the    door  of 
the    wardrobe.       Old    Leon    was    lying    before    it   and 
seemed    to    be    eyeing   it    dubiously.       Geoffrey    turned 
the    key  in    the   lock   and   opened    the   wardrobe   door. 
The   door  into   the   hidden   room  was   closed    precisely 
as  he  had  left  it.     Mindful  of  his  previous  experience, 
he    took    the   revolver   in    his  right  hand   and  held   the 
candle  at   arm's  length  outside   the  wardrobe  while  he 
moved   the   knob.     The   door  opened   suddenly  as  be- 
fore and  Leon  at  once  sprung  into  the  room.     Geoffrey 
followed,    holding   the  candle   above  his  head.     It  was 
cold  and  empty  and  there  were  no  signs  of  its  having 
been    lately    occupied.       The    ashes    in    the    fire-place 
looked  as  if  they  had  been  undisturbed  since  his  pre- 
vious   visit.     The    bed-clothing   and    furniture    told    no 
tales   of  use,  but   seemed   to  be   in   precisely   the   same 
condition  as  when  he  last  saw  them.     And  yet  he  could 
not   rid  himself  of  the   idea  that   the   room   had  lately 

7 


90  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

been  inhabited.  Leon  seemed  to  be  of  the  same  opin- 
ion. He  snuffed  about  the  room  eagerly,  and  finally- 
concentrated  his  attention  upon  a  spot  near  the  fire- 
place. After  searching  about  the  room  he  would  return 
each  time  and  re-examine  this  spot,  until  apparently 
confessing  himself  balked,  he  lay  down  and  looked  up 
at  his  master^s  face  inquiringly. 

"Well,"  thought  Geoffrey,  "I'm  in  here  now,  and 
I  'm  bound  to  know  if  there  's  any  other  outlet  to  this 
infernal  den." 

So  he  set  to  work  and  examined  minutely  every 
portion  of  the  room.  He  moved  the  bed  and  searched 
the  floor  for  a  trap-door.  He  could  find  none.  The 
wall  was  a  plain  plastered  one,  and  he  sought  along 
it  vainly  for  any  evidence  there  might  be  of  a  joint. 
And  so  he  went  around  again  and  again,  but  could 
find  no  opening  save  that  by  which  he  had  entered 
and  the  immovable  windows  with  the  fixed,  unyielding 
shutters  on  the  back  side.  He  went  out,  closed  the 
door,  brought  sealing-wax  and  placed  his  seal  upon 
it,  and  closed  the  door  of  the  wardrobe,  which  he 
locked  and  sealed  also. 

"There,"  said  he,  "if  that  den  is  occupied,  no  one 
shall  come  in  here  without  my  knowledge." 

And  so  he  returned  to  the  great  room  thwarted, 
but  not  convinced  nor  even  discouraged.  His  hypoth- 
esis of  the  mystery  was  fixed  and  clear,  and  he  should 
not  endanger  his  chances  of  eliminating  the  truth  and 
detecting  the  knave  by  imparting  it  to  anyone. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

FAITHFUL    UNTO    DEATH. 

THE  next  day  Maggie  put  paper  shades  upon  the 
windows  of  the  sitting-room.  Geoffrey  set  him- 
self to  work  out  the  mystery  upon  his  hypothesis,  and 
adopted  several  clever  devices  to  entrap  the  intruder, 
without  success.  Nothing  more  was  seen  or  heard  to 
throw  light  upon  the  matter,  until  the  night  of  the  suc- 
ceeding Sabbath ;  then  indeed  the  question  in  regard 
to  the  character  of  the  mysterious  visitant  received  a 
terrible  solution. 

It  was  past  midnight.  The  moon  was  shining  clear- 
ly upon  the  straggling  mass  of  buildings  which  formed 
Lovett  Lodge.  Its  soft  light  came  into  the  room  oc- 
cupied by  Geoffrey  Hunter,  which  was  across  the  hall 
from  the  living-room,  and  had  once  been  the  recep- 
tion-room or  parlor  of  the  Lodge. 

Geoffrey  Hunter  was  sitting  on  the  side  of  his  bed, 
a  look  of  mingled  perplexity  and  terror  upon  his  face. 
Old  Leon  was  going  back  and  forth  from  his  master^s 
bed  to  the  door,  whining  piteously.  Geoffrey  had 
awakened  from  his  sleep  overwhelmed  with  terror.  It 
did  not  seem  a  dream.  He  could  not  remember  any 
definite  thought  which  had  caused  his  fright.  He 
could  only  hear  the  low  whining  of  Leon.     He  called 


92  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

him,  softly.  The  dog  came  and  licked  his  hand,  trem- 
blinLT  with  excitement. 

"  What  is  it,  fellow  .^  "  said  Geoffrey,  whispering  and 
putting  his  hand  on  the  dog's  neck.  He  held  his  breath 
and  listened.  The  dog  grew  restive.  "  Hist,  hist.  Be 
still,"  he  said  under  his  breath.  He  heard  the  old 
clock  in  the  room  across  the  hall  tick  the  seconds 
slowly.  The  silence  was  terrible.  It  seemed  as  if  na- 
ture never  slept  so  deeply  before.  The  night  was  one 
dead  sea  of  silence.  Even  the  moonlight  was  oppres- 
sive— a  dull,  ghastly  glare.  He  was  wide  awake,  but 
still  the  horrible,  nameless  fear  brooded  over  him  like 
a  nightmare — a  terrible  foreboding  waiting  to  be  ful- 
filled. He  rose  and  began  to  dress,  hurriedly,  but 
noiselessly,  stopping  every  now  and  then  to  listen. 
Every  instant  suspense  and  apprehension  grew  more 
fearful.  An  overturned  shoe  made  him  start,  gaze 
wildly  around,  and  grasp  the  revolver  lying  on  the 
table.  He  smiled — a  faint  and  sickly  smile — at  his 
own  terrors,  but  still  clutched  the  revolver,  and  looked 
cautiously  around.  The  dog  was  growing  more  rest- 
less. Strange  that  he  should  act  so !  He  never  did 
before.     Should  he  let  him  out.'* 

He  started  towards  the  door  to  do  so,  moving 
stealthily  in  his  stockinged  feet,  as  if  afraid  of  his 
own  foot-fall.  Suddenly  shriek  after  shriek  of  mor- 
tal terror  rang  through  the  house.  A  woman's  voice, 
strained  to  its  utmost  pitch  and  freighted  with  an  agony 
of  fear.  It  made  the  silence  populous  with  shapes  of 
terror.  The  ear  which  was  oppressed  with  stillness  a 
moment  since  was  overburdened  with  echoing  horror  now. 


FAITHFUL  UNTO  DEA  TH.  93 

There  was  no  more  uncertainty ;  all  was  sharp, 
clear,  definite.  Evil,  crime,  a  life  in  mortal  peril,  was 
the  unmistakable  language  of  those  cries.  Geoffrey's 
fear  was  gone.  Leon  bounded  at  the  door  and  began 
tearing  it  vvith  his  teeth.  Geoffrey  hastened  to  undo 
it,  and  the  faithful  brute  sprang  like  an  arrow  down 
the  long  hall,  and  Geofi"rey  heard  him  ascending  the 
stairs  towards  Toinette's  room  almost  before  he  had 
stepped  outside  the  door.  All  at  once  the  shrieking 
ceased.  The  terrible  silence,  pregnant  of  evil,  came 
again  for  an  instant.  Geoffrey's  heart  almost  ceased 
beating  as  he  ran  at  his  utmost  speed  along  the  hall. 
Every  sense  seemed  trebled  in  intensity  and  power. 
He  tried  to  shout  to  the  dog,  but  no  sound  came 
from  his  lips.  Now  there  was  a  short,  sharp,  anxious 
yelp,  a  loud,  angry  roar,  and  then  the  terrible  silence 
came  again  as  Geoffrey  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
He  mounted  swiftly,  clutching  the  revolver,  anticipat- 
ing an  encounter.  It  was  strange  he  did  not  hear 
Leon,  he  thought.  He  reached  the  top.  It  seemed  an 
age  since  he  was  at  the  bottom.  All  silent  still.  He 
half  paused.  "  Take  'em,  Leon,  take  'em,  boy,"  he 
shouted  with  an  effort,  as  he  rushed  into  the  long, 
dark  hall  leading  from  the  landing  towards  Toinette's 
room,  braced  for  a  desperate  struggle.  There  is  a 
rustle  behind  him.  His  strained  ear  catches  it.  He 
turns  and  sees  a  tall  figure  gliding  swiftly  down  the 
stairway.  He  wheels,  and  pursues,  clears  the  stairs 
almost  at  a  bound,  rushes  along  the  side-hall  into  the 
great  one  leading  to  the  front  doorway,  and  there,  just 
passing   through  the  open  door — How   came   it    open } 


94  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

Maggie  kept  the  keys — with  a  swift,  gliding  motion, 
sees  the  tall  figure  he  had  seen  before — the  ghost  of 
Lovett  Lodge. 

He  raised  his  revolver  and  fired  quickly.  Without 
looking  around  or  changing  its  pace  in  the  least,  the 
figure  kept  on,  and  before  he  could  fire  again  had 
passed  the  door  and  turned  toward  the  eastern  end  of 
the  porch.  He  redoubled  his  efforts,  and  caught  a 
glimpse  of  it,  as  he  reached  the  door,  descending  the 
flight  of  steps  which  led  down  from  the  porch.  Another 
shot,  with  like  effect,  and  Geoffrey  Hunter  was  stand- 
ing where  the  figure  had  been  ten  seconds  before, 
looking  to  the  right  and  left  in  the  moonlit  enclosure, 
seeing  nothing  but  the  dog  Tige,  who  was  crouching, 
silent  and  cowed,  at  the  foot  of  the  steps.  He  felt 
the  horror  of  his  waking  moments  creeping  back  upon 
him.  Could  it  be  that  this  mysterious  entity  was  in- 
deed ghostly  in  its  character.?  He  went  down  the 
steps  slowly  and  thoughtfully.  He  peered  beneath  the 
porch.  The  clear  moonlight,  streaming  in  at  the  west- 
ern end,  showed  the  brick  wall  and  narrow  brick  col- 
umns on  which  the  porch  rested  with  great  distinctness. 
A  child  of  five  years  old  could  not  have  hidden  from 
his  sight  there.  He  passed  around  the  eastern  end  of 
the  dwelling  to  the  rear,  peering  into  every  shaded 
nook,  saying  over  and  over  again  to  himself,  "  It 
cannot  be  far  off."  And  yet  he  saw  nothing,  and 
his  strained  ear  caught  no  sound  except  the  uproar  in 
the  servants'  quarters  among  the  aroused  and  wonder- 
ing inmates,  and  the  outcries  of  old  Maggie,  who  was 
calling    upon    every    individual    in    her   vocabulary   of 


FAITHFUL   UNTO  DEATH.  95 

names,  whether  of  earthly  or  unearthly  nature,  for  aid. 
He  paid  no  attention  to  them.  He  heard  the  noise 
as  an  operative  hears  the  clatter  of  machinery  by 
which  he  is  daily  surrounded — without  heeding  its 
existence.  The  lightest  footfall  in  the  front  enclos- 
ure would  have  drowned  them  all  to  his  ears.  There 
was  none.  He  went  back  to  the  steps,  peered  under 
the  porch  again,  ascended,  walked  along  the  porch, 
let  down  the  hammer  of  his  revolver,  and  went  to  his 
own  room.  Striking  a  light  at  once,  he  passed  along 
the  hall  to  the  door  of  the  housekeeper's  room.  Open- 
ing it,  he  entered,  and  beheld  old  Maggie  on  her  knees 
in  the  corner,  exclaiming  frantically. 

"Oh  Lor',  Lor',  help  us!  an'  ef  de  Lor' won 't  help 
us,  Jesus  Christ  help.     Do  help,  do  Lor'!" 

Seizing  her  by  the  shoulder,  he  shook  her  roughly, 
saying : 

"Stop  this  nonsense,  Maggie." 

"  Oh,  Mass  'r  Geoffrey,  whatever  is  de  matter }  Oh 
you  need  n't  shake  de  ole  nuss's  bones  out  of  her  black 
skin!" — as  Geoffrey  continued  shaking.  "What  has 
happen 'd.?"  Another  shake.    "  Has-de-gho's-come-agin.?" 

"Shut  up,  or  it  will."  And  shake  followed  shake 
too  fast  for  utterance  upon  her  part. 

"  And  now,"  said  Geoffrey,  when  she  was  finally 
silenced,  "do  as  I  tell  you.  Go  and  tell  Bob  and  Mar- 
tin to  come  here  at  once,  and  the  others  to  go  to  bed. 
D'ye  hear?" 

He  was  gone  before  she  could  find  breath  to  ques- 
tion. Not  daring  to  remain  alone,  she  hurried  off  to 
the  quarters  to  perform  her  master's  bidding. 


06  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

Geoffrey  passed  quickly  down  the  hall  into  the  side 
one,  where  he  half-paused  to  listen.  There  was  no 
sound  above.  He  passed  up  the  stairs  quickly,  but 
quietly.  It  seemed  strange  that  he  felt  no  such  appre- 
hension as  when  he  last  ascended  them.  His  revolver 
was  in  his  pocket  but  he  did  not  think  of  it.  He 
anticipated  no  struggle,  and  yet  was  oppressed  with 
fear.  He  paused  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  intending 
to  wait  there  till  Bob  and  Martin  came.  He  dreaded 
to  see  the  unknown  horror,  which  waited  him  in  the 
obscurity  of  the  hall.  The  boys  would  come  in  a 
moment.  It  was  here  he  had  shouted  to  old  Leon, 
What  had  become  of  the  dog.'*  He  held  the  can- 
dle above  his  head  and  stood  peering  into  the  dark- 
ness. He  would  call  him.  He  did  so  and  listened. 
Was  that  a  sigh  he  heard .''  It  came  again,  piteous, 
pleading,  feeble.  Was  it  human.?  He  could  wait  no 
longer,  but  walked  "rapidly  down  the  hall.  His  foot 
slipped  and  he  almost  fell.  He  lowered  the  candle 
and  looked.  It  was  blood — a  great  pool  of  it.  And 
then  it  went  in  an  irregular,  zigzag  line  down  the  hall 
towards  Toinette's  room.  He  followed  it.  Sometimes 
draggled,  and  splashed,  as  if  something  had  been  drag- 
ged through  it,  and  then  narrow  and  deep  as  if  it  had 
gurgled  from  a  wound.  Geoffrey  watched  it  and  won- 
dered. Still  he  went  on,  tremblingly.  He  had  never 
looked  on  murder,  but  now  he  felt  that  he  must  meet 
it  soon.  There  was  a  track  of  Leon's  foot.  Where 
could  the  dog  be.''  He  heard,  as  if  in  a  dream,  the 
voice  of  Bob  in  conversation  with  old  Maggie,  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs.     He  was  at  the    door   of  Toinette's 


FAITHFUL   UNTO  DBA  TH.  97 

room  now.  It  was  ajar,  and  splashed  at  the  bottom 
with  blood.  He  paused  a  moment,  then  opened  it 
and  entered.  Almost  at  his  feet  lay  the  form  of  Toi- 
nette,  her  face,  pale  and  rigid,  turned  towards  him, 
her  night-dress  dabbled  with  blood;  and  close  beside 
the  white-robed  figure  of  the  unconscious  girl,  was  the 
form  of  the  noble  old  dog.  The  faithful  animal  looked 
in  his  master's  face,  with  a  beseeching  gaze,  flapped 
his  tail  in  recognition,  and  then  licked  the  pallid  face 
before  him  tenderly. 

Geoffrey  stooped  and  put  his  hand  on  the  pale 
brow.  There  was  no  pulse  in  the  temple.  He  sought 
for  the  heart-beat,  and,  when  it  was  withdrawn,  his 
hand  was  stained  with  blood.  It  moved  him  strange- 
ly. He  could  not  decide  whether  she  was  dead  or 
not.  He  stripped  the.  dress  from  her  shoulder,  and 
there,  just  below  the  collar-bone,  was  a  small  blue 
puncture,  from  the  narrow  blackened  lips  of  which  a 
small  dark  stream  trickled  down  over  the  fair  white 
bosom.  He  watched  it  a  moment  and  thought  it 
flowed  irregularly,  as  if  she  still  breathed.  He  stooped 
to  raise  her  from  the  floor,  when  his  attention  was 
attracted  to  old  Leon.  Now  that  he  was  in  front  of 
him,  he  noticed  that  the  white  breast  of  his  noble  pet 
was  dark  with  blood,  and  that  a  great  puddle  of  it  had 
collected  where  he  lay.  He  seemed  to  be  gnawing  at 
his  breast. 

"Poor  fellow,"  said  Geoffrey,  "are  you  hurt  too.?" 

He  put  his  hand  on  the  dog's  breast  and  felt  the 

hilt  of  a  dagger  buried  deep  in  his  chest.     Then  it  all 

flashed  upon   him:   how   the  girl  had  been    stabbed  in 

E 


08  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

her  room  the  flight  of  the  criminal,  intercepted  by  the 
dog;  the  short  struggle  in  the  hail,  when  the  mur- 
derer's knife,  buried  in  the  breast  of  the  brave  as- 
sailant, had  slipped  from  its  owner's  grasp.  This 
explained  the  trail  of  blood  in  the  hall,  and  the  after 
silence  of  the  dog.  He  had  met  the  murderer  and 
received  the  fatal  blow.  Then,  with  his  life-blood 
flowing  from  the  wound,  in  the  very  anguish-throes  of 
death,  he  had  dragged  himself  to  the  side  of  the  play- 
mate for  whom  he  had  fallen.  It  came  to  the  mind 
of  Geoffrey,  too,  that  he  owed  his  own  life  to  the 
faithful  brute.  The  dagger  was  evidently  the  weapon 
relied  on,  perhaps  the  only  one  used  by  the  criminal, 
and  this  being  lost,  he  was  not  attacked,  though  he 
must  have  passed  within  striking  distance  of  the  as- 
sassin. 

"  Poor  fellow,"  said  Geoffrey.  The  dog  looked  at 
him  wistfully,  tried  feebly  to  grasp  the  dagger-hilt  with 
his  teeth,  then  laid  his  head  upon  the  neck  of  the  un- 
conscious girl  and  died.  One  of  Geoffrey  Hunter's 
truest  friends  would  watch   over  him  no  more. 

He  drew  out  the  dagger  and  wiped  it  on  Leon's 
shaggy  coat.  It  was  a  delicate  affair,  blue-bladed  and 
silver-hilted,  like  a  lady's  bijou,  but  a  strong  arm  had 
held  it,  and  a  cool  head  had  directed  the  fatal  stroke. 
It  was  no  chance  blow.  The  point  of  attack  was 
selected,  and  the  blade  sent  home  with  a  will.  He 
put  the  dagger  in  his  pocket,  patted  the  noble  head, 
and,  lifting  it  tenderly,  laid  it  on  the  floor.  Then, 
gathering  Toinette  in  his  arms,  he  started  along  the 
hall  to  the  stairway.     Carefully  as  if  she  were  a  woman 


FAITHFUL  UNTO   DEATH. 

^''Patted  the  old  dogs  noble  head^  and  lifting  it  tenderly  laid  it  on  the  floor. 

Then,  gathering  Toinette  in  his  arms,  he  started  along  the  hall^ — p.  q8. 


FAITHFUL   UNTO  DEATH.  99 

and  a  sister,  Geoffrey  Hunter  carried  the  lax  form  of 
the  stricken  girl.  Did  he  forget  that  she  was  a  slave, 
and  only  remember  in  that  fearful  hour  the  humanity 
and  womanhood  of  the  "  yaller  gal  Toinette  "  ?  It  could 
hardly  be,  yet  when  he  came  to  examine  the  wound, 
after  he  had  laid  her  on  the  sofa  in  the  great  room,  he 
did  not  ruthlessly  expose  her  bosom,  but  folded  back 
the  gown  with  care,  and  put  on  the  bandages  deftly 
and  tenderly,  as  if  she  were  a  woman  rather  than  a 
chattel. 

As  soon  as  this  was  done,  he  directed  Bob  to  send 
a  boy  for  a  physician,  and  himself,  with  three  or  four 
of  the  most  trusty  hands,  to  keep  watch  about  the 
building,  and  see  that  no  one  left  the  premises  until 
morning.  The  blood  from  Toinette 's  wound  was 
stanched  for  the  time,  and,  through  the  influence  of 
stimulants,  she  at  length  recovered  from  her  swoon 
and  looked  inquiringly  at  Geoffrey,  who  sat  by  her 
with  his  finger  on  her  pulse.  She  seemed  bewildered 
at  her  novel  situation,  and  would  have  spoken,  but  the 
effort  was  so  painful  that  she  swooned  again,  and  the 
wound  began  to  bleed  afresh. 

When  she  had  revived  somewhat  Geoffrey  said : 

"You  must  not  try  to  speak,  Toinette.  You  have 
been  badly  hurt,  and  must  keep  very  quiet  indeed !  " 

He  spoke  tenderly  and  soothingly,  and  Toinette's 
great  dark  eyes  turned  upon  him  wonderingly  and 
searchingly.  Something  in  the  expression  of  his  face 
seemed  to  satisfy  her,  and  she  closed  them  again  with 
a  smile  of  contented  weakness. 


CHAPTER  IX, 


A     *'POOR     POLL.  " 


MEANTIME,  Aunt  Maggie  had  been  petitioning 
for  Geoffrey's  leave  to  send  for  Betty  Certain, 
a  neighbor  woman,  who  had  achieved  a  local  reputation 
for  steadiness  of  head  and  skill  of  hand  in  important 
crises  of  sickness  and  misfortune  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
Lodge. 

She  was  said  to  be  a  woman  of  somewhat  eccentric 
disposition,  neither  young  nor  old,  living  alone  upon  a 
little  farm  adjoining  the  Lovett  Lodge  plantation,  and 
known  as  the  Old  Certain  Tract.  It  jutted  into  the 
Lovett  plantation,  and  the  owaiers  of  the  Lodge  had  at 
various  times  offered  unreasonable  prices  for  the  bit 
of  barren  ridge,  but  their  offers  had  invariably  been 
met  with  an  almost  angry  refusal. 

The  woman,  though  a  landowner  in  her  own  right, 
did  not  belong  to  what  was  known  in  the  community 
as  the  better  class  of  people.  Her  parents  and  fore- 
bears had  been  "  common  livers,"  who  had  never  owned 
slaves,  but  relied  solely  upon  their  own  labor  for  sub- 
sistence. As  a  consequence  the  little  tract  of  land 
had  grown  poorer  and  poorer  year  by  year,  and  its 
occupants  had  kept  pace  with  it  in  deterioration.  So 
Betty  Certain — Mistress  Certain,  as  she  was  frequently 
called,    no    one    seemed    to    know  why  —  was    a    "poor 


A  "  POOR  poll:'  101 

white,"  but,  withal,  one  without  imputation  of  the  vices 
not  unfrequently  attaching  to  the  females  of  her  class, 
and  held  in  considerable  repute  for  sturdy  uprightness 
as  well  as  for  unpretending  kindness  of  heart. 

Geoffrey  Hunter  was  unwilling  to  allow  any  one  to 
know  more  of  the  interior  happenings  of  his  household 
at  this  juncture  than  was  absolutely  necessary,  "  espe- 
cially," he  said,  "  any  poor  white  woman  of  whom  he 
knew  nothing." 

Old  Maggie's  entreaties  finally  prevailed,  however, 
upon  the  condition  that  Mistress  Certain  should  first 
report  to  him  in  person ;  and  if,  after  examination,  she 
seemed  to  him  worthy  of  such  honor,  she  was  to  re- 
main, otherwise  not. 

Geoffrey  was  sitting  by  the  table  in  the  library  when 
she  arrived.  It  was  broad  daylight  without,  but  the 
solid  shutters  were  closed  and  a  candle  was  burning 
within.  He  was  examining  the  dagger  which  he  had 
drawn  from  Leon's  breast,  when  a  servant  came  to  say 
she  was  waiting.  He  dropped  it  into  a  drawer  of  the 
table  and  bade  her  enter. 

She  was  by  no  means  prepossessing  in  appearance. 
A  tall,  large  woman,  of  perhaps  forty  years,  of  lean, 
muscular  build,  with  a  certain  masculinity  of  appear- 
ance which,  as  well  as  her  apparent  height,  was  doubt- 
less enhanced  by  the  coarse,  scant,  homespun  dress, 
which  did  not  reach  low  enough  to  conceal  the  heavy 
brogans  and  a  part  of  the  gray  stockings  which  formed 
her  foot-gear.  An  old  sun-bonnet,  of  the  same  dull, 
uncertain  color  as  her  dress,  adorned  her  head,  and 
under  it  the  masses  of  her  dark  hair  were  gathered  in 


102  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

heavy,  shining  plaits,  contrasting  strangely  with  her 
somewhat  coarse  features  and  negligent  attire.  There 
was  nothing  especially  repulsive  about  the  woman,  and 
her  face  had  a  sturdy  resoluteness  of  aspect  rather 
pleasing  than  otherwise,  when  narrowly  scanned. 

Bidding  her  "  How  d'  ye,  ma'm,"  Geoffrey  motioned 
to  a  chair  near  the  hearth. 

The  woman  seated  herself,  stretched  her  feet  toward 
the  fire,  and  gazed  nonchalantly  at  the  blaze.  She  was 
evidently  no  whit  abashed  in  the  presence  of  the  wealthy 
young  planter  who  deemed  himself  so  infinitely  superior 
to  any  of  her  class.  There  was  no  curiosity  or  nerv- 
ousness in  her  demeanor — just  straightforward  inde- 
pendence. Neither  voice  or  manner  asked  a  question. 
Geoffrey  noted  the  fact  and  it  suited  him. 

*'  This  is  Mrs.  Certain,  I  suppose  .-* "  said  he. 

"  I  'm  sometimes  called  that.  Betty  Certain  's  my 
name,"  she  answered,  without  looking  round. 

"  I  have  sent  for  you,  Mrs.  Certain,"  said  Geoffrey, 
"because  I  am  in  need  of  some  one  to — that  is — Mag- 
gie desired  me  to  send  for  you  to  come  and  remain 
at  the  Lodge  for  a  few  days." 

"  So  I  heerd,"  said  the  woman,  quietly. 

"  At  this  time,"  continued  the  master  of  Lovett 
"  I  could  only  with  great  reluctance  consent  that  any 
stranger  should   enter  my  house  " — 

"  I  've  been  here  afore,"  she  interrupted. 

"Yes,  but  we  do  not  happen  to  be  acquainted," 
said  he. 

"Not  'specially." 

"  And  at  this  time  it  is  very  necessary  that  all  my — 


A    ''POOR  POLLr  103 

all  who  are  m  my  house,"  he  said,  correcting  himself, 
"should  be  entirely  trustworthy." 

"  Betty  Certain  never  stole  nothin',"  said  the  woman, 
shortly. 

"'  Oh,  no  !  I  " — beg  your  pardon  he  would  have  said, 
but  she  was  a  "mean  white" — "I  did  not  mean  that; 
but  can — can  I  trust  your  prudence,  your  discretion, 
Mrs.  Certain.?" 

"  I  do  n't  ask  to  know  your  secrets,  Geoffrey  Hun- 
ter," said  the  woman,  sharply.  "I  've  known  many  a  one 
connected  with  this  house,  and  got  too  poor  pay  for  it 
to  keer  to  hear  more,"  and  she  looked  round  the  room 
with  a  quiet  familiarity  that  puzzled  Geoffrey  Hunter. 
This  ignorant,  poor,  "  mean  white  "  woman  would  not 
be  patronized,  and  was  fast  changing  places  with  him 
and  assuming  the  air  of  careless  condescension  with 
which  he  had  set  out. 

He  thought,  however,  that  her  allusion  to  payment 
had  given  him  a  key  to  her  character.  He  would  try 
again.     So  he  said  : 

"  I  think  I  can  trust  you,  Mrs.  Certain,  and  I  am 
willing  to  pay  you  well  Here  is  the  first  installment," 
and  he  took  a  half-eagle  from  his  drawer  and  held  it 
towards  her. 

The  woman  glanced  at  the  money,  then  rose,  gazed 
searchingly  at  Geoffrey  a  moment,  and  said : 

"  Geoffrey  Hunter,  I'm  a  pore  woman,  an'  I  s'pose 
folks  tells  sad  tales  on  me — tho'  I  do  n't  keer  fer  that — 
but  there's  some  things  I  won't  do,  not  fer  no  man's 
money;  an'  'fore  I  takes  yours,  ye  mus*  give  me 
yer  word   that   there   ain't   no   crime    in  what    ye   want 


104  A   ROYAL    GENTLEMAN. 

done — no  blood,  nor  anythin'  that  '11  make  one  think 
atterwards  that  the  devil's  got  a  mortgage  on  ther 
soul.  I  hed  enuff  o'  that  years  ago,  an'  tho'  I  ain't 
no  better  nor  I  should  be,  at  the  best,  more  'n  other 
folks,  I  promised  the  Lord  that  if  He  would  show  my 
hands  clar  o'  that  ar  trouble,  as  they  were,  I  'd  never 
git  into  any  more  sech,  an'  I  won't.  An'  so,  sir,  if  ye  've 
got  anythin'  to  do  that  or'tn't  tu  be  done,  ye'd  better 
du  it  yerself,  or  git  somebody  else.     I  wo 'n't  du  it. 

"But  if  you'll  promise  me  there  ain't  no  blood  ner 
wrong  in  the  matter  that  ye  want  my  help  in,  why,  I'll 
stay  an'  du  it.  Ef  not,  I  '11  jes'  go  home.  I  know 
*t  ain't  no  common  thing  that's  made  young  Geoffrey 
Hunter  sen'  fer  Betty  Certain  afore  day  in  the  winter 
time.  I  ain't  ter  be  fooled.  Fa'r  's  fa'r.  Come  out 
squar'  an'  strait,  an'  ye  can  'pend  on  my  totin'  right, 
but  ef  ye  try  ter  chaff  me,  an'  git  me  inter  trouble, 
ye'll  be  sorry,  shore." 

Geoffrey  was  astounded.  There  was  no  chance  of 
patronizing  this  woman,  if  she  was  a  "mean  white." 
She  would  have  been  strong-minded  enough  had  her 
station  in  life  been  different.  She  had  taken  the  reins 
from  his  hands,  and  put  him  in  the  shafts.  She  was 
evidently  the  master  of  the  situation,  and  he  must  sue 
for  terms,  or  let  her  go  home,  as  she  proposed.  He 
was  now  as  anxious  that  she  should  stay  as  he  had 
been  that  she  should  not  come. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Hunter,"  said  the  woman,  "  yes  or  no. 
Will  yer  give  me  yer  word  7  " 

"  There  is  no  crime  or  wrong  in  this  affair,"  said 
Geoffrey   slowly   and    emphatically,  looking   steadily  in 


A    ''POOR  FOLLr  105 

her  eyes,  *'  of  my  seeking,  aiding,  or  desiring.  Will 
that  do?" 

"  There  is  crime  in  it  then,"  said  the  woman  cau- 
tiously, "  perhaps  blood  ?  " 

"  Crime  and  blood,"  he  assented. 

"  More  blood,  more  blood !  An*  in  this  house  per- 
haps.'* " 

"  In  this  house  !  "  he  answered, 

"I  was  afeard,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head.  "It 
hed  a  bad  start  at  fust.  I  don't  want  ter  be  curus, 
but  perhaps  ye  wouldn't  object  tu  tellin'  me  whose 
blood  it  was  }  " 

"Toinette's,  my  girl  Toinette's,"  he  said. 

"An'  you  didn't  do  it,  nor  don't  know  who  did.?" 
she  asked. 

"  I  would  almost  as  soon  have  thought  of  shedding 
my  own,"  he  answered,  solemnly. 

"  Dead  ?  " 

"Not  yet." 

The  woman  took  off  her  sun-bonnet  and  laid  it  on 
the  chair,  smoothed  her  front  hair,  and  felt  the  shin- 
ing knob  in  which  it  was  gathered  at  the  back,  caught 
up  the  recreant  locks  about  her  ears,  and  replaced  an 
obtruding  pin  with  a  motion  that  made  Geoffrey  think 
of  a  dagger-thrust.  Then  she  spoke,  in  the  quiet, 
practical  tone  of  one  who  is  ready  for  work. 

"Well,  ]\Ir.  Hunter,  ef  I  can  be  of  any  service  I'm 
ready  to  begin." 

Geoffrey  picked    up    the    coin    from    the    table    and 

offered  it  to  her  again. 

"  Wait   till  it's  arned.  Mister  Geoffrey.     Time   'nuff 
8 


106  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

then,"  said  the  woman,  waving  it  aside.  "  Besides, 
the  son  of  Manuel  Hunter  has  a  right  to  ask  some 
favor  of  Betty  Certain  without  pay." 

Geoffrey  asked  her  to  be  seated  again,  and  briefly 
related  the  events  of  the  past  night.  He  said  nothing 
of  the  previous  occurrences,  the  apparition  at  the 
window  or  the  secret  room,  as  he  had  no  evidence  to 
connect  them  with  the  crime,  though  they  were  con- 
stantly in  his  thought. 

When  he  had  finished,  Betty  Certain  drew  a  long 
breath,  and  said : 

"  Strange  things  hez  happened  in  this  house  afore, 
which  nobody  could  explain,  though  I've  always  thought 
I  could  guess  at  most  on  't ;  but  this  yer  thing  beats 
me.  Hevn't  ye  any  idea.  Mister  Geoffrey,  whose  work 
itis.?"- 

"None,"  he  answered,  "except  that  it  must  have 
been  the  work  of  an  enemy — a  bitter  enemy," 

"  An'  what  enemy  hev  ye  "i  "  she  asked. 

"I  did  not  know  that  I  had  any,"  he  replied. 

"Could  any  one  hev  been  jealous  of  the  gal.?'' 
eyeing  him  keenly. 

"  Impossible,"  he  replied. 

"  Hev'  ye  looked  fer  any  traces  whar  the  gal  was 
stabbed  1  "  she  asked. 

He  replied  in  the  negative,  and  suggested  that  they 
should  do  so  at  once.  They  accordingly  passed  out 
upon  the  porch,  and  as  they  went  along  he  pointed  to 
the  spot  where  he  had  last  seen  the  figure.  As  they 
went  through  the  front  door-way,  they  noted  where  his 
shot  had  grazed    the   post,  passing  clear   to    the   right 


A  ''POORPOLLr      ^  107 

of  the  figure,  which  had  not  then  reached  the  door. 
In  the  hall  Mrs.  Certain  called  attention  to  the  bloody 
imprint  of  a  foot.  They  followed  it  on,  up  the  stairs, 
and  to  the  room  occupied  by  Toinette.  It  was  a 
small,  narrow,  delicate  track,  such  as  might  have  been 
made  by  the  slippered  foot  of  a  woman. 

"Not  bigger 'n  fives,  at  the  outside/'  said  Mrs.  Cer- 
tain, putting  her  broad  pedestal  beside  it. 

Further  on,  they  found  a  small  piece  of  gray  cloth, 
which  Mrs.  Certain  pronounced  to  have  been  torn  from 
the  sleeve  of  a  woman's  dress — "and  somehow,"  said 
she,  "  it  seems  as  ef  I  hed  seen  sunthin'  like  it  afore, 
but  I  can't  jes  now  remember  whar." 

The  dog  had  evidently  torn  it  from  the  assassin  in 
the  struggle  and  carried  it  on  in  his  mouth  as  he 
dragged  himself,  bleeding  and  dying,  towards  the  friend 
for  whom  he  had  given  his  life,  an  unavailing  sacrifice. 

Entering  the  room  where  the  crime  had  been  com- 
mitted, they  found  that  Toinette  had  been  dragged 
from  her  bed,  across  the  room,  almost  to  the  door, 
where  she  had  finally  been  struck  down.  Here  was 
the  form  of  the  noble  old  Newfoundland  stretched  stiff 
and  stark  upon  his  side,  where  his  own  life-blood  had 
mingled  with  that  of  the  young  slave-girl  whom  he  had 
sought  to  defend.  His  white  breast  was  clotted  with 
blood,  and  his  paws,  thrust  forth  appealingly  towards 
his  young  master  in  that  last  moment  of  his  life,  had 
been  frozen  there  by  the  icy  touch  of  death, 

Geoffrey  loved  the  old  dog,  who  had  once  saved 
him  from  a  watery  grave,  and  afterwards  been  the  in- 
separable   companion    of    his    college    days.      He   bent 


108  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

over  him,  patted  his  curly  neck,  and  said  with  tear- 
ful eyes,  "  Poor  fellow  !  poor  fellow  !  "  On  the  plan- 
tation Leon  had  been  a  sort  of  Grand  Turk,  whose 
ways  were  never  questioned, — going  wherever  his  mas- 
ter went,  lying  by  his  chair  while  he  studied,  and 
keeping  watch  at  his  bedside  w^hile  he  slept.  Is  it  any 
wonder  that  Geoffrey  Hunter  dropped  tears  upon  the 
shaggy  coat  of  his  old  friend — the  truest  and  most  de- 
voted he  had  ever  known  ? 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  learned  here.  In 
fact,  the  mechanism,  so  to  speak,  of  the  attempted 
murder  was  very  simple  and  easily  apprehended,  ex- 
cept one  thing — the  opening  of  the  front  door.  The 
doorway  from  the  back  porch  into  the  hall  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairway,  as  is  usual  in  Southern  houses  of  this 
character,  was  seldom  locked  at  night,  and  anyone  de- 
siring merely  to  reach  the  room  occupied  by  Toinette 
might  have  entered  there  and  passed  up  the  stairs  en- 
tirely unmolested.  Instead  of  doing  so,  it  was  evident 
in  this  instance,  as  Geoffrey  thought,  that  Aunt  Mag- 
gie's room  had  first  been  entered,  the  key  taken  from 
the  nail  at  the  foot  of  her  bed,  the  door  unlocked,  and 
the  key  returned  to  its  place. 

Geoffrey  remarked  this  as  he  passed  through  the 
hall  with  the  woman,  on  their  return.  She  was  still 
twisting  the  blood-stained  piece  of  gray  cloth  about 
her  finger  in  an  absent  way. 

"  So  yer  think  whoever  't  was  must  hev  come  in  at 
the  side  door,  gone  to  Maggie's  room  for  the  key,  then 
'long  this  hall  to  the  front  door,  an'  back  an'  up  the 
stairs,  afore  she  hurt  the  gal,"  said  Mrs.  Certain. 


A   ''POOR  POLV*  109 

"Certainly,"  replied  Geoffrey;  "how  else  could  it 
have  been  done  ?  " 

"  Why  not  hev  come  in  at  the  back  door  an'  gone 
up  the  stairs  without  coming  in  here  at  all  ? "  she  asked. 

Geoffrey  started,  and  his  surprise  did  not  escape 
the  keen,  gray  eye  of  Mrs.  Certain,  who  seemed  almost 
instinctively  to  be  dragging  his  unacknowledged  thought 
to  light.  Unconsciously  Geoffrey  had,  in  his  own  mind, 
connected  this  act  of  violence  with  the  apparition  which 
had  alarmed  Toinette,  and  which  had  been  seen  only 
in  the  front  of  the  house,  to  such  an  extent  that  he  had 
failed  to  inquire  why  he  had  elaborated  the  hypoth- 
esis which  he  had  adopted.  This  latent  premise 
being  absent  from  the  mind  of  the  woman,  she  had 
naturally  inquired,  why  should  the  would-be  murderer 
turn  away  from  the  intended  victim,  enter  the  old  ser- 
vant's room,  pass  along  the  corridor,  unlock  the  front 
door,  return  the  key,  and  then  proceed  to  the  chamber 
of  Toinette,  to  commit  the  deed  ?  And  this  thought 
found  expression  as  the  woman,  watching  him  narrowly, 
continued : 

"An'  what  would  anyone  carry  the  key  back  into 
Maggie's  room  fer  7  " 

No  reason  was  apparent.  The  young  aristocrat  saw 
at  once  that  this  poor  v/oman,  whom  he  had  contemned 
and  distrusted,  had  taken  the  lead  in  the  investigation, 
and  that  he  must  follow.  It  irritated  him,  and  he  an- 
swered shortly : 

"  How  should  I  know  why  ?     It  must  have  been  done, 
however." 

The  woman  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.     They  had 


110  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

stopped  in  the  hall  while  speaking,  and  she  stood  lean- 
ing back  against  the  balusters,  looking  absently  at  the 
wall  before  her. 

"  Whar  did  you  say  you  slept  ? "  she  asked,  at 
length, 

Geoffrey  indicated  the  room  by  a  gesture. 

"  In  thar  ?  "  exclaimed  the  woman ;  "  an'  was  the 
dog  with  you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

"  An'  war'  he  quiet  afore  the  gal  screamed  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  His  restlessness  and  growling  wakened  me." 

"  Geoffrey  Hunter,"  said  the  woman,  with  startling 
earnestness,  "  ye  'd  best  git  out  o'  this  yer  house  directly. 
Them  as  entered  here  las'  night  came  in  by  that  ar 
door,"— pointing  to  the  front  way-—"  an'  it 's  my  notion 
that  they  meant  harm  tu  you,  mor'n  tu  the  pore  gal  in 
yon.  It's  not  the  fus'  time  the  devil's  played  quare 
pranks  in  this  yer  house,  to  my  knowin';  an'  bolts  an* 
bars  ain't  no  account  'gin  sech  as  went  'long  here  las' 
night.  Eft  hadn't  been  fer  that  ar  dog,  it 's  my  notion 
ye  'd  not  been  here  to  tell  about  it  now.  An'  now,  ef 
ye  '11  take  my  advice,  ye  '11  not  sleep  in  that  thar  room 
ary  other  night,  an'  fur  that  matter,  you  'd  be  safer 
sleepin'  away  entirely.  No  good  '11  come  o'  yer  bidin 
here."  She  was  twisting  and  untwisting  the  bit  of  cloth 
around  her  fingers  absently,  as  she  spoke. 

Geoffrey  was  silent  a  moment. 

"Come,"  said  he,  and  they  entered  the  room  where 
Toinette  lay. 

As  they  approached  the  sofa  the  woman's  face  again 


A    "  POOR  FOLLr  111 

assumed  a  look  of  indefinite,  struggling  surprise.  It 
seemed  as  if  memory  were  engaged  in  an  unsuccessful 
effort  at  recognition. 

With  a  half-despairing  shake  of  the  head  she  ap- 
proached closer,  and  said: 

"So  this  is  the  gal  ez  was  hurt,  is  it?" 

She  did  not  seem  to  expect  an  answer,  but  wrap* 
ping  the  bit  of  cloth  about  the  forefinger  of  her  left 
hand,  she  began  to  undo  the  dressing  and  examine  the 
wound.  A  thin  red  line,  slightly  broader  in  the  center, 
with  the  pallid  lips  and  purplish  ring  surrounding  it, 
which  marks  the  wound  made  by  a  dagger,  showed 
itself  upon  the  left  breast,  just  above  the  girlish  bosom. 

"  'Twas  a  close  call,"  said  the  woman,  after  regard- 
ing it  a  moment,  "an'  I'll  be  boun'  'twas  n't  no  or'nary 
knife  cut  that  ar  hole." 

As  she  replaced  the  bandages,  nodding  her  head  in 
approbation  of  what  had  been  done,  Toinette  opened 
her  eyes,  and  gazed  wonderingly  at  her.  The  effect 
upon  the  woman  was  marvelous.  Surprise,  incredulity, 
fear,  seemed  at  once  to  possess  her  countenance.  Her 
face  flushed  and  paled  by  turns.  With  a  quick  move- 
ment, the  left  hand,  containing  the  piece  of  cloth  she 
had  picked  up  in  the  hall  above,  was  withdrawn  from 
Toinette's  shoulder,  and  thrust  under  her  apron.  At 
the  same  time  she  glanced  furtively  at  Geoffrey.  When 
she  drew  forth  her  hand  again  the  bit  of  gray  cloth 
had  disappeared. 

"Hush,  chile,"  said  the  woman,  as  Toinette  would 
have  spoken.  "  You  'd  better  save  what  breath  ye  have. 
Ther 's  no  knowin'  how  long  any  11  be  lef  ye." 


112  ^  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

"I'm  to  take  keer  o'  her,  ye  said?"  Geoffrey 
nodded  assent.  "Then  I  may  ez  well  begin,"  she  said, 
as  she  addressed  herself  with  something  of  unnecessary 
stir  to  the  duties  of  nurse. 

Geoffrey  retired  from  the  room,  and  Toinette  soon 
sank   into   a   quiet  slumber. 

Then  Mrs.  Certain  sat  down  and  drew  from  its 
hiding-place  the  piece  of  cloth.  She  smoothed  it  out 
upon  her  knee,  and  gazed  upon  it  long  and  earnestly. 

"It's  the  very  same,"  said  she.  "It's  been  many 
a  year  since  I  see'd  it,  but  I  would  a-knowed  it  anywhar. 
I  'd  good  reason  to  remember  it,  though  I  never  thought 
to  see  it  under  these  circumstances,  never ! "  Then 
she  sat  a  long  time  apparently  absorbed  in  thought. 

While  she  sat  thus  the  doctor  came  to  look  at  his 
patient.  He  was  simply  an  old  and  garrulous  prac- 
titioner of  the  country  neighborhood.  Geoffrey  had 
told  him  as  much  as  he  thought  necessary  for  him  to 
know,  no  more.  The  girl  had  been  stabbed.  That  was 
all  that  could    concern  the  medical  attendant. 

^'  Some  of  the  niggers  been  quarreling  with  her,  eh  } 
An'  cut  the  gal,  ye  say.?  Bad,  bad!  They  allers  will 
cut,  ef  they  can  get  a  knife  when  the  fit  's  on." 

He  felt  Toinette's  pulse,  and,  removing  the  cover- 
ing, adjusted  his  spectacles  and  looked  at  the  wound. 
He  started — 

"  Eh  !  What 's  this  }  "  looking  minutely  at  the  small, 
dark  puncture.     "  Who  d  'ye  say  did  this  .?  " 

Geoffrey  told  him  that  the  perpetrator  was  unknown. 

"  Do  n't  know  who  did  it,  Mr.  Geoffrey !  "  said  the 
old   physician,    looking   keenly   around.       "  Well,    then. 


A   ''POOR  POLL."  113 

look  here.  Let  me  tell  you  this  is  no  common  wound 
—no  cut  made  with  a  plantation-nigger's  knife.  It 
was  a  genteel  weapon  did  that,  and  a  steady  hand  that 
held  it,  too.  I  'd  wager  money  it  's  not  the  first  time 
that  blade  has  tasted  blood,  nor  the  first  time  that 
hand  has  guided  it." 

Geoffrey  then  told  him  of  the  occurrence  of  the 
night  more  minutely,  and  brought  him  the  dagger 
drawn  from  Leon's  breast. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  doctor,  "this  is  it,"  comparing 
it  with  the  wound.     "  But  where  's  the  dog .' " 

Geoffrey  informed  him  that  the  servants  were  then 
taking  him  out  for  burial.  They  went  together  and 
examined  the  body,  and  then  returned. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  it  was  a  steady  and  prac- 
ticed hand.  Not  one  in  a  hundred  of  the  coolest  of 
men — I  say  men,  for  somehow  I  alius  thought  it  was  a 
woman's  hand  that  used  that  dirk — could  have  made 
that  stroke.  As  I  've  said,  it  's  not  the  first  time  I  've 
seen  that  style  of  cut,  an*  in  this  very  house  too.  Ah, 
Mrs.  Certain,  I  see  you  remember  it.  What !  Never 
heard  of  it,  Mr.  Geoffrey  ?  Yes,  you  were  away  at 
school  at  that  time,  or  too  young  to  know  about  it 
if  you  were  at  home,  I  reckon.  Well,  let  's  have 
breakfast,  and  over  our  pipes  afterwards  I  '11  tell  you 
about  it.  I  never  let  anything  interfere  with  eating 
and  digestion.  Yes,  the  gal  's  well  enough.  Rest  and 
quiet — Betty  Certain  knows  how  to  nuss  her.  I  '11 
leave  her  a  little  soothing  powders,  an*  drop  in  towards 
night  again.  I  allow  she  '11  get  well  if  she  aint  hurt  any 
more.    It  was  a  narrow  miss,  but  she  *s  young  an'  strong." 


CHAPTER  X. 

APOLLO'S     ORACLE. 

BREAKFAST  was  over,  and  the  doctor  and  Geoffrey 
were  seated  in  the  library,  each  with  a  long- 
stemmed  pipe,  and  a  box  of  light  russet-yellow  tobacco 
between  them. 

During  the  meal,  the  doctor  had,  according  to  his 
previously  declared  maxim,  studiously  refrained  from 
all  reference  to  the  present  exciting  events  at  the  Lodge, 
or  previously  enacted  ones  of  which  he  had  intimated 
some  knowledge. 

"  So  you  never  heard  the  history  of  this  house,  Mr. 
Geoffrey?"  said  he  at  length,  as  the  clay  pipe  glowed 
and  puffed,  and  clouds  of  soft,  bluish-white  smoke  rolled 
from  his  mouth. 

Geoffrey  answered  that  he  had  not,  and  the  old  man 
went  on  : 

"  Well,  it  's  queer.  I  Ve  been  practicing  on  the 
river  here  for  nigh  about  thirty  years.  Let  me  see — 
I  came  here  in  '30  or  '31,  and  this  house  was  built  a 
few  years  later.  Lovett — Arthur  Lovett  built  it.  He 
came  from  somewhere  down  in  the  low  country,  and 
was  kin  to  the  Loyds,  and  through  them  to  the  Petrees 
and  some  other  families  in  the  country  round. 

"  He  was  a  man  of  somewhat   unsocial   disposition 


APOLLO'S  ORACLE.  115 

but  finely  educated  and  very  well  read.  These  books 
about  us  bear  testimony  to  his  taste,  for  most  of  them 
were  his  familiar  friends.  I  see  you  have  put  your 
law-sheep  into  that  corner  rack  which  he  had  filled 
with  a  class  of  publications  not  very  common  nor  pop- 
ular in  our  part  of  the  country,  which  were  probably  re- 
moved before  your  father  bought.  It  was  a  collection 
of  works  on  the  institution  of  slavery.  I  reckon  it 
contained  every  book  that  had  been  published  on  the 
subject  in  any  language  up  to  that  time. 

"  Mr.  Lovett  was  supposed  to  have  peculiar  no- 
tions on  this  question,  but  so  far  as  I  know  he  never 
expressed  any  opinion  at  all  here,  but  just  went  on 
about  his  own  matters,  kept  his  niggers  at  work,  and 
raised  just  as  big  crops  as  any  of  his  neighbors.  So 
they  generally  let  him  alone.  Once,  however,  the  cir- 
cuit-rider stopped  here  over  night  and  got  a  glimpse 
of  some  of  these  books,  which  I  had  seen  many  a  time — 
and  had  even  read  several  of  them  which  bore  some- 
what on  professional  matters — without  a  thought  of 
speaking  of  them,  thinking  it  none  of  my  business  to 
attend  to  anything  pertaining  to  my  patients  except 
their  diseases.  No  sooner,  however,  did  the  preacher 
see  them  than  he  began  to  tell  about  the  country  that 
Mr.  Lovett  was  not  soiynd  on  the  slavery  question — 
was  a  seditious,  dangerous,  and  objectionable  person. 

"  By  itself,  this  report  would,  perhaps,  have  passed 
for  very  little,  but  taken  in  connection  with  certain 
facts  in  the  menage  of  the  Lodge,  it  gave  him  no  little 
notoriety  for  a  time.  One  or  two  committees  waited 
upon  him   to   regulate  his   doctrines   and  practice,  but 


116  A  ROYAL  gentleman; 

it  was  generally  believed  that  they  found  the  quiet  re- 
cluse less  of  a  coward  than  they  had  presumed,  and 
were,  in  fact,  badly  outdone  at  their  own  game. 

"  He  was  a  bachelor,  of  perhaps  thirty-five  or  forty 
years  old  when  he  first  moved  here,  and  had  for  a 
housekeeper  a  young  quadroon  woman  of  remarkable 
beauty  as  to  whose  status  there  was,  for  a  time,  consid- 
erable  discussion. 

"  It  was  said,  and  the  revelations  of  a  celebrated 
action  at  law  which  you  have  probably  read  afterwards 
proved  the  correctness  of  the  rumor,  that  this  man, 
Arthur  Lovett,  had,  at  an  early  age,  become  enamored 
of  the  girl,  then  his  father's  slave.  Several  children 
were  result  of  their  intimacy,  and  so  great  was  his  in- 
fatuation that  he  finally  persuaded  his  father  to  execute 
a  deed  of  manumission  for  her  and  her  children,  and  he, 
thereupon,  conveyed  to  them  the  major  part  of  his  own 
estate,  and  continued  his  former  intimacy.  A  doubt 
having  been  intimated  by  an  eminent  attorney  as  to  the 
legality  of  the  deed  of  manumission,  Arthur  persuaded 
his  father  to  take  Belle  and  her  children  to  New  York 
and  have  them  freed  according  to  the  laws  of  that 
State.  This  was  accordingly  done,  but  the  woman, 
after  a  time,  returned  to  this  State,  and  entered  upon 
her  old  relations  with  him. 

"He  seems  to  have  been  perfectly  infatuated  with 
this  yaller  gal,  and  at  one  time  to  have  imbibed  all  the 
pestiferous  doctrines  of  the  Abolitionists.  People  were 
very  lenient  upon  this  subject  then.  It  was  regarded 
as  a  possible  contingency  that  the  slaves  might,  some- 
time, be  freed.     Very  many  masters  taught  their  people 


APOLLO'S  ORACLE.  117 

to  read  and  write.  The  free  negroes  were  then  voters, 
and  were  allowed  a  larger  liberty  than  is  now  permitted 
them.  That  was  changed  in  '35,  you  know.  Before  that, 
I  have  heard  that  some  of  them  were  ministers,  regularly 
ordained,  and  teachers  of  no  mean  efficiency.  I  have 
understood  that  one  or  two  of  our  Governors,  and  per- 
haps Judges  of  the  Supreme  Court  too,  were,  for  a 
time,  under  the  tuition  of  a  certain  free  negro,  and  per- 
haps were  fitted  for  college  by  him.  There  is  a  tale 
which  I  have  heard  among  the  country  people,  that  once, 
when  he  came  unexpectedly  to  a  place  where  some  of 
his  old  pupils  were  at  dinner,  they  compelled  him  almost 
by  force  to  sit  down  and  eat  with  them,  declaring 
themselves  honored  by  his  society.  I  reckon  it  was 
true  too,  for,  by  all  I  hear,  he  must  have  been  a  most 
extraordinary  man.  I  suppose  the  old  fellows  would 
deny  it  now,  though  I  have  heard  another  ex-Governor 
own  that  he  had  mustered  in  the  same  company  with 
free-niggers  many  a  time  in  the  old  days ;  and  I  've 
seen  hundreds  of  our  best  men  do  the  same  thing.  So, 
people  did  not  make  so  much  note  of  Arthur  Lovett 
allowing  this  girl  to  read  and  write  and  have  all  the 
accomplishments  of  a  lady  as  we  would  now. 

"But  the  relationship  which  existed  between  them, 
after  a  time,  began  to  occasion  remark  in  the  com- 
munity, for  it  was  too  plainly  one  which  no  law-abid- 
ing, Christian  people  could  endure.  They  were  indict- 
ed, and,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  prosecution  became 
persecution.  People  were  not  content  to  prosecute 
them  for  adultery,  but  also  set  upon  them,  under  the 
'law   just    enacted,   for   inciting   slaves    to    sedition,   and 


118  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

for  circulating  seditious  publications.  It  created  a  great 
excitement  in  the  region  where  they  lived  and  I  have 
heard  that  the  old  man  Lovett  had  to  pay  a  pretty 
sum  to  stop  the  prosecutions,  which  he  could  only  do 
upon  condition  that  the  parties  should  leave  the  county 
for  good. 

"  Thereupon,  Arthur  came  here  and  bought  this 
place,  taking  a  deed  to  himself  '  as  trustee  for  Belle 
Lovett,  a  free  person  of  color,  and  the  children  born  of 
her  body,'  as  your  law  books  phrase  it.  He  built  this 
house,  as  I  said,  superintending  it  all  himself  and  put- 
ting into  it  all  his  whimsical  notions. 

"  On  coming  here,  Arthur  Lovett  seemed  to  have 
determined  to  avoid  any  of  those  damaging  suspicions 
as  to  his  relations  with  the  girl  Belle  which  had  given 
him  trouble  in  the  low  country.  It  is  true  that  he 
lived  in  the  same  house  here  with  her,  and  was  very 
attentive  in  his  care  of  her  children,  who  were  really 
bright,  beautiful  creatures.  Beyond  this,  however,  not 
the  most  rigid  scrutiny  could  detect  any  sign  of  famili- 
arity. The  girl  occupied  some  well-furnished  apart- 
ments in  that  part  of  the  house  where  the  cutting  was 
done  last  night,  and  had  absolute  control  of  all  that 
pertained  to  the  culinary  department  of  the  household, 
being  reputed  to  be  something  extraordinary  in  that 
line. 

*'  Thus  matters  went  on  for  some  time  without 
change.  At  length  the  old  man,  Peter  Lovett,  died. 
It  was  said  that  his  death  was  caused  by  anxiety  arising 
from  pecuniary  losses,  but  this  was  perhaps  an  after- 
thought   engendered   by    the    deplorable    condition    in 


APOLLO'S  ORACLE.  119 

which  his  estate  was  found  to  be  after  his  death.  It 
proved  to  be  utterly  insolvent.  His  creditors  seized 
upon  everything  except  the  meager  year's  provisions  for 
the  widow  and  her  dower  in  her  husband's  real  estate, 
which  the  law  allowed  her  to  hold  during  her  life. 
Except  for  this,  the  mother  and  two  unmarried  sisters 
were  reduced  to  penury,  and  now  it  was  seen  how 
thoughtless  Arthur  had  been  in  yielding  to  his  infatua- 
tion for  Belle.  His  mother  soon  died,  and  his  sisters 
came  to  live  at  the  Lodge.  They  constantly  upbraided 
him  with  unkindness,  and  an  utter  disregard  for  their 
comfort  and  interest.  In  fact,  there  was  the  worst  kind 
of  a  chronic  family  quarrel,  in  which  the  quiet,  studious 
young  epicurean  had  decidedly  the  worst  of  the  en- 
counter. 

"  The  gal  who  had  caused  all  this  trouble  seems  to 
have  behaved  better  than  any  of  the  rest.  I  have  been 
told  that  she  offered  to  waive  all  her  rights  under  the 
deed  of  trust  in  case  she  was  taken  North  with  her  chil- 
dren and  given  a  reasonable  settlement  there.  The  girl 
evidently  thought  she  was  making  a  liberal  offer,  as  she 
certainly  was  if  she  had  actually  been  a  free  woman,  as 
everybody  at  that  time  supposed  her  to  be.  It  seemed, 
however,  to  enrage  the  whole  family  against  her,  who 
at  once  set  upon  her  with  redoubled  violence.  You 
know  how  they  would  act  in  such  a  case.  The  gal's 
old  mistress,  Nannie,  was  dead,  and  she  had  to  fight 
the  other  two  sisters  single-handed,  or  rather  single- 
tongued,  for  Arthur  would  not  allow  them  to  strike 
the  gal. 

"  As  for  Arthur,  he  was  near  about  distracted.     It  is 


120  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

reasonable  to  suppose  that  the  heat  of  his  passion  had 
somewhat  cooled,  and  that  he  began  to  see  the  folly 
of  his  course.  At  any  rate,  he  kept  himself  locked  in 
the  library  here,  and  smoked  and  cussed  in  grim  solitude. 

"About  this  time  the  administrator  of  the  elder  Lov- 
ett's  estate  conceived  the  idea  that  the  girl  Belle  and 
her  children  might  be  held  for  the  benefit  of  the  es- 
tate. He,  therefore,  brought  suit  against  Arthur,  in 
whose  possession  he  alleged  they  were,  for  their  recov- 
ery and  also  to  compel  him  to  account  for  their  use 
and  profit  for  several  years. 

"After  a  great  deal  of  litigation,  the  gal  and  her 
children  were  adjudged  to  be  still  the  property  of  the 
estate,  and  were  taken  to  the  low  country  by  the  admin- 
istrator and  sold  at  public  outcry,  to  make  assets  for 
the  payment  of  creditors. 

"  Meantime,  Arthur  seemed  to  have  become  thor- 
oughly ashamed  of  his  early  life,  and  to  have  done  all 
in  his  power  to  shake  off  its  memory  and  influences. 
The  deed  to  this  plantation,  which  had  been  made  as  I 
told  you,  had  never  been  registered,  and  after  the  gal 
had  been  taken  as  a  slave,  he  made  search  for  it,  with 
the  intention  of  destroying  it,  I  think,  but  without  avail. 
Your  father's  advice  was  asked,  and  he  counseled  the 
making  of  a  new  deed  directly  to  Arthur  Lovett,  with- 
out any  trusteeship  expressed.  The  simple-minded  man 
of  whom  the  plantation  had  been  purchased  was  in- 
formed that  his  former  deed  was  lost  and  a  new  one 
required,  and  for  a  slight  gratuity  executed  another  as 
directed,  making  no  inquiries.  Indeed,  he  would  have 
been  no  wiser  if  he  had. 


APOLLO'S  ORACLE.  121 

"  Then  affairs  settled  down,  and  people  were  begin- 
ning to  forget  the  occurrences  which  I  have  narrated, 
when,  all  at  once,  we  were  startled  with  the  announce- 
ment that  Arthur  Lovett  was  about  to  marry  Betty  Cer- 
tain— the  Mistress  Certain  in  the  other  room.  Such  a 
marriage  was  hardly  less  remarkable  than  his  liason 
with  th^  pretty  quadroon. 

"  Betty  Certain  was  a  girl  of  perhaps  twenty-one  or 
two,  buxom  and  rugged,  but  of  a  very  un-c^xXdXn  posi- 
tion in  society.  Her  father  was  not  exactly  a  poor 
ivhite,  for  he  owned  a  little  piece  of  land  and  was  a 
comfortable  liver,  but  they  wer^  not,  by  any  means,  of 
the  class  in  society  to  which  the  I^ovetts  belonged. 

"  She  had,  somehow,  obtained  the  etitree  of  the 
Lodge  when  Arthur  first  came,  and  was  a  sort  of 
privileged  character  here  ever  afterwards.  She  was  a 
strange,  blunt  sort  of  creature,  of  a  good  enough 
character,  with  a  kind  of  man-like  fearlessness  of  conse- 
quences which  made  her  more  dreaded  than  loved  in 
her  own  circle  in  life,  and  rendered  it  even  more  strange 
that  Arthur  should  have  chosen  her.  Yet  she  was  a 
sort  of  favorite.  One  could  hardly  meet  the  fresh, 
sturdy  girl  without  being  impressed  with  her  good  na- 
ture and  her  good  sense.  She  came  of  a  tolerably  fair 
stock,  too.  Her  grandfather,  Ezra  Certain,  was  the 
agent  of  '  the  Earl '  in  the  old  days,  when  that  dignitary 
owned  a  grant  which  might  have  been  an  empire,  if  he 
could  have  held  it.  He  had  a  bee  in  his  bonnet 
though,  and  his  oddities  came  out  in  his  children  pretty 
strong.  There  is  a  story  in  the  country  that  the  family 
name  is  not  Certain,  but  I  don't  know  how  true  it  is. 


122  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

"  People  generally  thought  the  bride  would  be  good 
enough  for  the  groom;  but  I  always  distrusted  her,  and 
not  unfrequently  speculated  as  to  how  she  had  brought 
the  matter  about,  for  it  was  evidently  her  own  work. 
There  was  a  rumor  that  certain  disclosures  in  reference 
to  their  previous  relations,  made  by  a  set  of  rough  char- 
acters who  organized  themselves  into  a  committee  of 
vigilance  for  the  purpose  of  whipping  the  gal — Belle — 
and  righting  affairs  generally  at  Lovett  Lodge,  led 
eventually  to  this  engagement.  It  was  said  that  they 
found  something  connected  with  the  domestic  econo- 
my of  the  Lodge  which  compromised  Miss  Betty. 
There  certainly  was  a  meeting  between  Bill  Price,  the 
leader,  and  Lovett,  which  came  near  closing  Price's 
account  without  waiting  for  it  to  be  balanced.  I  never 
believed  a  word  of  this  report,  though,  so  far  as  it  im- 
plied any  impropriety  on  her  part.  She  had  too  much 
prudence  for  that  sort  of  thing. 

"  By  the  sisters  of  Arthur  Lovett — proud  and  refined 
ladies — Betty  Certain,  after  her  engagement  with  Arthur 
was  known,  was  treated  with  the  utmost  contempt,  and 
only  seemed  to  be  endured  because  they  were  power- 
less to  have  things  otherwise.  Her  conduct  towards 
them,  and  their  ordinary  intercourse,  was  such  as  might 
be  expected  from  what  I  have  described — constant 
abuse  and  recriminations  upon  both  sides. 

"  Towards  Arthur  Lovett  himself  the  conduct  of 
this  woman  was,  to  my  mind,  most  remarkable.  It  was 
the  farthest  removed  from  what  would  have  been  ex- 
pected of  a  low-bred  woman,  who  finds  a  man  of 
position    in   her  toils   and    determines   to   profit  by  the 


APOLLO'S  ORACLE.  123 

discovery.  She  seemed  to  regard  him  with  absolute 
veneration,  as  a  being  of  superior  mold,  and  yet  with 
a  constant  and  tender  pity.  Never  have  I  seen  a  wo- 
man's eyes  beam  with  that  peculiar  light  which  speaks 
the  tender  care  of  a  watchful  nurse  over  a  beloved 
object  more  clearly  than  when  she  watched  his  varying 
moods.  It  was  utterly  devoid  of  the  exultation  you 
would  have  looked  for  under  the  circumstances,  and 
did  not  seem  so  much  passion  as  watchful  adoration. 
It  was  the  mute  watching  for  the  will  of  the  master 
which  you  may  have  noticed  in  a  favorite  dog.  Every 
motion  or  gesture  of  his  form  or  countenance  seemed 
to  have  a  meaning  which  she  was  anxious  to  apprehend 
and  obey,  not  so  much,  it  seemed  to  me,  from  love- as 
from  pity.  She  shielded  him  from  the  family  broils, 
which  often  raged,  and  was  untiring  in  her  efforts  to 
secure  an  atmosphere  of  quiet  for  the  eccentric  recluse. 

"  I  watched  her  closely,  for  I  was  convinced  that 
she  was  a  most  consummate  actress,  as  the  proposed 
marriage  clearly  proved.  One  would  not  expect  it,  but 
that  coarse,  hard-featured  woman,  nursing  that  yaller 
gal  in  yonder,  has  powers  of  intrigue,  self-control,  and 
artful  assumption  of  the  garb  and  guise  of  feeling, 
which  I  have  never  seen  equaled. 

"The  effect  upon  her  of  the  approaching  marriage 
was  most  remarkable.  She  seemed  to  be  half- fright- 
ened at  the  success  of  her  own  schemeSo  Her  watch- 
fulness and  anxiety  towards  Arthur  redoubled,  and 
even  her  manner  towards  his  sisters  softened.  She 
listened  quietly  and  kindly  to  their  remonstrances, 
and  told  them  that  it  was  not  by  her  desire  or  wish, 


124  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

but  in  obedience  to  Arthur's  solicitations,  that  she  had 
consented  to  become  his  wife.  Of  course  they  did 
not  believe  a  word  of  it,  and  when  they  retorted  with 
taunts  and  insinuations  she  repeated  her  old  threats, 
and  told  them  that  she  was  not  yet  powerless  to  repay 
scorn  with  injury — though  she  might  be  when  she  be- 
came the  wife  of  Arthur  Lovett. 

"  Yet  she  seemed  to  shrink  from  the  day  that  would 
witness  her  triumph,  rather  than  to  desire  its  advent. 
It  was  put  off  from  time  to  time  with  apparent  dread, 
and  when  it  was  finally  fixed,  she  begged  that  the  wed- 
ding might  be  of  the  most  private  character,  and  that 
they  might  start  at  once  upon  their  bridal  trip. 

"  I  spoke  to  Lovett  with  regard  to  his  approaching 
nuptials,  one  day,  but  he  changed  the  subject,  betray- 
ing, as  I  thought,  a  disinclination  to  speak  of  it. 

"  The  trousseau  for  the  bride  was  completed  at  last, 
and  a  portion  of  it  spread  out  upon  a  table  at  the 
end  of  this  room.  The  wedding  was  to  have  taken 
place  the  next  morning.  Arthur  Lovett  was  that  night 
in  unusual  spirits.  He  left  the  sitting-room  immediately 
after  tea,  and  sat  with  Miss  Betty  in  the  library  here 
for  an  hour  or  so,  attended  her  back  to  the  sitting- 
room  door,  and  then,  as  was  his  custom,  shut  him- 
self in  here  for  the  night  with  his  books  and  his  pipe. 

"  I  was  quite  intimate  at  the  Lodge  at  that  time, 
having  some  thought  of  marriage  with  Miss  Bertha, 
the  younger  sister  of  Arthur,  so  you  see  I  was  not 
exactly  a  disinterested  spectator  of  the  events  I  am  re- 
lating. However,  nothing  ever  came  of  it,  and,  consider- 
ing what  followed,  I  am  sincerely  glad  there  did  not." 


CHAPTER   XI. 

NICOTINIANA. 

'^  T  FEAR,"  said  the  Doctor,  refilling  his  pipe,  which 
-L  had  long  been  empty,  "  that  I  have  been  indulg- 
ing in  speculations  rather  than  narrating  the  events 
which  I  set  out  to  tell.  The  fact  is,"  he  continued, 
crowding  the  tobacco  into  the  bowl,  "  that  is  the  in- 
variable effect  of  a  narcotic  upon  a  person  of  sedentary- 
habits.  Tobacco  does  not  have  the  effect  which  has 
been  attributed  to  it,  of  depriving  the  mind  of  logical 
power  and  accuracy,  though  its  excessive  use  is  in  many 
other  respects  hurtful  enough.  On  the  other  hand,  I 
am  inclined  to  the  opinion  that  the  purely  logical  power 
is  strengthened,  or,  at  least,  improved,  by  the  abstrac- 
tion which  results  from  the  use  of  the  weed.  Its  sooth- 
ing and  quieting  influences  tend  at  once  to  the  most 
perfect  abstraction  and  concentration  of  thought.  The 
mind,  which  is  largely  affected  by  the  use  of  this  nar- 
cotic, or,  indeed,  any  other,  is  disinclined  to  leave  one 
subject  to  pursue  another.  It  seems  to  produce  the  most 
perfectly  conservative  state  of  mind  conceivable.  The 
victim,  or  subject  rather,  of  confirmed  narcotism,  started 
upon  a  train  of  thought,  follows  it  with  the  utmost 
persistence  and  pleasure  to  the  farthest  possible  limit, 
and  leaves  it  with  the  greatest  reluctance. 


126  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

"  For  instance,  the  religious  speculations  of  the 
Brahmins  and  other  Eastern  philosophical  sects,  and 
the  more  recent  but  quite  as  marked  tendency  of  the 
German  mind,  I  regard  as  an  unmistakable  evidence 
of  the  effect  of  narcotics  upon  the  men  of  sedentary 
habits.  The  same  is  observable  in  our  own  country. 
The  brilliant  speculative  intellects  are  to  be  found — 
at  least  until  of  late  years — almost  exclusively  at  the 
South.  It  is  true  that  nearly  all  works  claiming  that 
character  have  been  of  New  England  origin,  but  they 
have  been  mostly  controversial  and  semi-religious  works. 
They  are  not  properly  speculative ;  they  are  simply 
cold  mathematical  deductions,  from  premises  either 
admitted  or  assumed.  You  might  as  well  term  Euclfd 
speculative  as  Edwards  and  the  theologic  disputants 
of  that  day.  Speculation  is  always  suggestive,  inquir- 
ing— awakening  the  mind  to  thought  and  research, 
but  not  satisfying  its  wants.  Demonstration,  on  the 
other  hand,  leaves  nothing  to  be  done  by  the  reader. 
Beginning  to  read  a  book  of  that  character  is  like 
getting  on  a  railway  train — you  must  go  where  the 
train  goes.  The  demonstrator  carries  you  with  him 
like  a  prisoner.  The  speculator  sends  you  abroad  alone, 
into  tangled  thickets  of  luxuriant  thought,  full  of  un- 
seen treasures  and  unexplored  ways,  and  quietly  waits 
for  you  to  come  back  to  pursue  your  general  course 
with  him.  The  one  is  the  man  who  travels  because 
he  must  get  to  his  journey's  end,  the  other,  the  leisured 
and  accomplished  tourist,  who  travels  simply  for  the 
enjoyment  to  be  derived  from  wayside  scenes  and 
chance  encounters. 


NICO  TINIANA .  127 

"  The  former  class  are  more  apt  to  figure  in  litera- 
ture and  to  leave  a  lasting  record  of  their  acts  and 
successes  than  the  latter.  It  is  for  this  reason  that 
our  history  presents  the  anomaly  that  it  does.  The 
South  has  ruled  the  Government  from  its  inception, 
but  the  record  of  Northern  statesmen  and  orators  is 
far  more  permanently  brilliant  and  imposing   than  ours. 

"  The  opponents  of  John  Randolph — -a  dozen  of 
them — are  immortalized  by  speeches  made  in  reply  to 
his,  yet  how  meager  is  our  record  of  those  dazzling  ef- 
forts which  it  gave  immortality  to  oppose! 

"  The  same  was  true  of  Mr.  Clay.  He  towered 
above  the  giant  from  Massachusetts,  as  AVebster  did 
above  his  pigmy  fellows — in  strength,  influence,  and 
effective  eloquence — but  a  hundred  years  from  now 
Webster  will  be  read  with  delight,  Clay  with  surprise 
and  wonder  that  he  was  ever  deemed  an  orator.  The 
same  is  true  of  our  Badger,  and  Mangum,  and  a  hun- 
dred other  names  dear  to  every  Southern  heart.  Their 
strength  was  in  the  thoughts  they  suggested,  not  in 
the  conclusions  they  demonstrated.  They  were  giant 
minds,  fitted  by  every  circumstance  of  growth,  train- 
ing and  habit  for  the  highest  effort  of  speculation — 
the  accurate  delineation  of  the  various  relations  which 
our  anomalous  governmental  machinery  imposed  upon 
the  Federal   Union,  the  State,  and  the  individual. 

"  Calhoun  was  the  most  powerful  generalizer  who 
has  ever  appeared  in  the  field  of  American  political 
thought.  I  have  never  been  able  to  concur  with  his 
views,  not  because  I  did  not  consider  his  reasoning 
good,  but    because    I   did  not    want  to  admit  his  con- 


128  ^  ROYAL  GENTLE  MAX, 

elusions,  whether  right  or  wrong.  Our  Southern  states^ 
men  have  always  been  speculators,  suggesters.  They- 
have  from  the  first  supplied  our  political  capital.  They 
have  been  the  animating  influences  of  our  national 
counsels.  The  Northern  leaders  have  been  leeches, 
robbers,  stealing  the  thoughts  of  our  great  careless 
Goliaths,  as  they  chatted  over  a  glowing  pipe  or  ut- 
tered the  results  of  years  of  subtle  meditations  in  the 
freedom  of  convivial  intercourse.  These  diamonds  of 
priceless  value  they  have  carefully  garnered  and  set 
in  crowns  upon  their  brows,  for  the  future  to  regard 
with  wonder.  The  issues  have  been  ours, — the  work 
of  our  thinkers.  The  successes  have  been  ours  too, 
the  triumphs  of  our  great  intellects.  The  speeches, 
the  reports,  and  the  personal  fame,  in  the  main,  will 
be  theirs.  We  have  had  the  past,  they  will  have  the 
future.  The  speeches  of  our  Northern  statesmen  are 
their  enduring  monuments.  The  measures  accom- 
plished by  our  Southern  giants,  the  rule  obtained  and 
held  by  a  numerical  minority  for  two  generations 
against  the  hottest  opposition,  the  form  proud  memorial 
of  their  strength,  seen  but  by  few  and  appreciated 
by  still  fewer. 

"In  the  main,  I  attribute  this  to  the  leisure  of  the 
Southern  planter  and  the  free  use  of  tobacco.  It  is 
true  that  at  this  time  there  are  a  few  in  chill  New 
England  who  are  taking  the  highest  rank  as  pub- 
lished speculators — for  the  best  speculative  minds,  as 
I  have  said  or  intimated,  rarely  leave  their  lucubra- 
tions to  posterity  at  first  hand.  These  Boston  fellows, 
however,  seem  to  have  happily  united  the  faculties  of 


NICO  TIN  I  A  NA.  129 

the  two  classes.  What  a  kin^  of  suggesters  is  this 
fellow,  Emerson,  and  the  author  of  The  House  with 
Seven  Gables  I  I  understand  that  Emerson  does  not 
smoke,  which  accounts  for  his  writing  so  much.  If 
Tie  smoked,  he  would  be  content  to  talk. 

"  Doctor,"  said  Geoffrey,  "don't  you  think  you  are 
illustrating  your  own   doctrine  pretty  fully  .?" 

"Well,  perhaps  I  am,"  said  he,  with  a  laugh,  "and 
demonstrating  its  correctness  too.  Let  me  see.  Where 
did  I  leave  off.''  Oh,  yes.  Arthur  Lovett  had  come 
into  the  library  here,  the  night  before  the  marriage 
was  to  take  place.  There  was  no  disturbance  here 
that  night,  but  as  he  did  not  make  his  appearance  at 
the  usual  time  next  morning  the  door  was  forced 
open,  and  in  a  great  arm-chair,  which  was  his  favorite 
seat,  they  found  him,   stone  dead. 

"  I  was  called  at  once,  and  not  only  examined  as 
to  the  cause  of  his  death  but  made  an  investigation  as 
to  the  means  by  which  he  had  been  killed — for  killed 
he  undoubtedly  was — by  the  hand  of  another.  He 
had  been  reading  and  smoking  after  Miss  Betty  left 
him,  and  had  probably  fallen  asleep,  for  his  pipe  was 
lying  on  the  floor  beside  him,  and  the  volume  was 
pressed  between  his  leg  and  the  chair  arm. 

"  He  was  stabbed  just  in  front  of  the  left  shoulder, 
the  blade  passing  downward  through  the  heart.  I  am 
of  the  impression  that  his  head  was  held  forcibly  in 
a  reclining  position  for  a  moment.  His  struggles  were 
but  brief,  however,  as  he  must  have  died  instantane- 
ously. There  was  no  blood,  except  a  little  on  his 
clothing  about  the  wound,  and  upon  a  handkerchief-^ 


130  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

part  of  the  bridal  trouseau — which  had  evidently  been 
used  to  wipe  the  dagger. 

"  It  seemed  probable,  in  fact  almost  certain,  from 
the  direction  of  the  blow,  that  the  murderer  had  stood 
behind  the  chair  when  it  was  struck.  It  was  a  clean, 
sharp,  steady  blow,  and,  judging  from  the  wound,  made 
by  the  same  weapon  that  cut  that  dainty  hole  in  your 
yaller  gal  out  there  last  night — or  at  least  its  counter- 
part. Two  wounds  could  not  more  closely  resemble 
each  other,  except  that  this  was  evidently  more  hur- 
ried, and  directed  too  far  back  to  be  fatal. 

"  It  may  be  a  whimsical  fancy,  and  certainly  I  can 
offer  no  reason  for  the  hypothesis ;  but  I  cannot  help 
believing  that  this  ere  little  toy  m.ade  both  those  wounds, 
and  that  the  same  hand  held  it  on  both  occasions.  It 
is  of  elegant  workmanship,  and  seems  to  be  of  solid 
silver  mounting ;  but  it  makes  an  ugly  hole,  with  the 
least  possible  strength. 

"  Did  you  ever  think  the  Italians  were  philosophic 
in  choosing  that  form  of  weapon  for  assassination  }  It 
has  several  peculiar  merits.  First,  it  reduces  the  re- 
sistance to  a  minimum ;  then  it  is  more  easily  with- 
drawn than  the  flat  blade  ;  and  being  withdrawn,  the 
wound  is  not  so  liable  to  close  and  stop  hemorrhage. 

"  But  I  do  not  mean  to  speculate  on  murder.  I 
have  told  you  my  story,  and  you  can  draw  your  own 
inferences  and  take  such  precautions  as  you  may 
deem  expedient  and  necessary.  Perhaps  you  know 
more  of  this  than  I  do,  and  have  the  thread  which 
will  guide  you  out  of  the  labyrinth ;  but  I  confess  it 
makes  me  nervous.      I   do  not   like   such  unexplained 


NICO  TIN' I  A  NA,  131 

phenomena.     There    seems    to    be   a  fatality  about   the 
place  of  a  peculiar  character." 

"  Yes,"  he  continued,  in  answer  to  an  inquiry  from 
Geoffrey,  "  there  was  a  great  deal  of  excitement  and 
speculation  over  the  death  of  Authur  Lovett,  and  any 
number  of  theories  were  advanced  to  account  for  it. 
Your  father,  among  others,  examined  the  premises  and 
the  body  very  carefully.  He  was  then  County  Attor- 
ney, and  of  course  had  an  interest  in  the  investiga- 
tion of  crime.  He  asked  a  great  many  questions  of 
all  the  witnesses  before  the  Coroner's  jury;  but  I 
thought  he  signally  failed  in  his  attempt  to  elucidate 
the  mystery." 

"Was  there  anything  peculiar  about  the  room.^" 
asked  Geoffrey. 

'  No,  nothing  that  I  particularly  recollect,"  said  the 
Doctor.  "Yes,  there  was;  the  door  was  locked,  and 
the  key  upon  the  ring,  with  other  keys,  in  his  pocket, 
as  he  always  carried  it.  Nothing  was  taken  from  his 
person  that  was  known  to  have  been  on  it,  and  nothing 
was  disturbed  in  the  room." 

"What  could  has'e  been  the  motive  for  killing  him.'*" 
asked  Geoffrev. 

"Well,  sir,"  answered  the  doctor,  "it  is  hard  to  say. 
No  one  had  any  grudge  against  him,  or  anything  to 
gain  by  his  death,  except  his  own  family.  Suspicion 
ran  hard  against  Betty  Certain  for  a  time,  but  on  in- 
vestigation it  was  shown  that  she  had  certainly  far 
more  to  gain  by  his  life  than  by  his  death.  His  will 
was  written,  but  unsigned,  leaving  everything  to  his  in- 
tended   wife,    Betty    Certain.     It    was    shown    that    he 


132  A. ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

designed  signing  it  before  he  started  on  his  bridal* 
tour.  Dying  intestate,  all  went  to  his  sisters.  Besides, 
it  was  found  that  his  life  was  heavily  insured — 
very  heavily,  for  those  days — and  they  received  all  this 
too.  These  things  made  a  great  deal  of  talk  about 
the  sisters,  and  I  think  the  general  idea  was  that  they, 
by  some  means,  compassed  his  death.  I  have  never 
been  quite  able  to  disbelieve  their  protestations  of  inno- 
cence, nor  yet  to  account  for  the  murder  on  any  other  * 
hypothesis." 

"What  did  Betty  Certain  do  and  say?"  asked  Geof- 
frey. 

"Betty  Certain  said  very  little.  What  she  did  was 
to  gather  her  own  little  wardrobe  and  personal  effects, 
carefully  leaving  out  every  gift  she  had  received  from 
Lovett  except  her  engagement  ring,  which  you  may 
have  noticed  she  still  wears,  and  go  home  to  her 
mother's.  After  the  property  was  sold,  and  the  money 
received  from  the  Insurance  Company,  the  sisters,  by 
your  father's  advice,  I  think,  offered  her  a  considerable 
sum,  perhaps  one  third.  She  did  not  take  it,  and  when 
they  came  to  urge  it  upon  her,  told  them  plainly,  that 
she  did  not  ^  want  a?iy  mo7iey  of  that  color'  Miss  Betty 
evidently  believed  that  the  manner  of  his  death  was  not 
unknown  to  them. 

"The  place  was  bought  by  your  father  at  a  bargain, 
on  account  of  the  bad  name  given  it  after  the  murder, 
and  has  been,  generally,  unoccupied,  until  you  came 
here." 

"Its  bad  name!"  said  Geoffrey.  "Does  a  place  get  a 
bad  name  simply  from  a  man  having  been  killed  upon  it.''" 


NICOriNIANA,  133 

"That  alone,"  answered  the  doctor,  "might  not  give  it 
one ;  but  there  soon  came  to  be  tales  abroad  of  spectral 
figures,  seen  moving  among  your  oaks,  to  which  the 
ordinary  laws  of  nature  did  not  apply.  It  was  said  that 
a  weird  shape  flitted  back  and  forth,  in  the  moonlight, 
before  which  the  dogs  were  silent,  or  howled  in  fear. 
In  other  words,  your  pleasant  residence  is  generally 
supposed  to  be  haunted.  I  hope  you  have  experienced 
nothing  of  this.''"  noticing  the  start  which  his  auditor 
gave,  at  the  sudden  memory  of  what  he  had  seen  the 
night  before. 

Geoffrey  answered  that  he  had  no  faith  in  ghostly 
visitants,  and  was  not  likely  to  be  troubled  by  them. 

The  doctor  smilingly  assented,  knocked  the  ashes 
from  his  pipe,  and  prepared  to  leave. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  he,  "  I  saw  your  father  yester- 
day. He  has  had  another  touch  of  paralysis,  and  I 
am  afraid  he  is  failing.  If  there  are  any  arrangements 
to  be  made — as  to  his  business,  you  know — they 
should  be  attended  to  at  once.  There  is  no  knowing 
what  may  happen.     Good  day." 

And  the  old  Doctor  rode  away,  leaving  Geoffrey 
Hunter  with  his  strange  problem  yet  unsolved. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A    DEAD    CLIENT. 

ACTING  upon  the  doctor's  advice,  the  next  day 
Geoffrey  went  to  the  Hunter  Home  and  found 
his  father  as  had  been  described  to  him.  The  sight 
of  his  son  somewhat  revived  him,  and  he  said  with  a 
touch  of  his  old  vivacity : 

"  How  d'  ye,  Geoffrey,  son.  I  'm  powerful  glad  to 
see  you.  I  was  jes'  goin'  to  send  a  boy  over  arter  ye. 
Yes,  as  ye  see,  I  'm  but  poorly,  but  I  hope  all 's  well 
at  the  Lodge.?" 

Geoffrey  informed  him  briefly  of  what  had  trans- 
pired there,  of  the  stabbing  of  Toinette  and  killing  of 
Leon. 

"  Sho,  sho ;  ye  do  n't  say  so.  Toinette,  little  Toi- 
nette, stabbed !  Who  should  want  to  kill  her !  An' 
her  mammy,  old  Mabel,  come  back  this  morning,  too — 
how  bad  she'll  feel!  An'  the  dog  killed!  Pity,  pity. 
He  was  a  fine  fellow,  though  he  hadn't  any  nose  an' 
wa'  n't  worth  nothin',  only  fer  company-like,  to  you. 
But  he  certain  did  think  a  power  o'  ye,  no  mistake. 
An*  Toinette,  little  Toinette,  that  yer  ma  loved  so 
well.  My  mind  misgave  me  when  you  asked  me  for 
her.  It  was  wrong,  my  son,  I  ought  not  to  hev  let 
you  have  her.  An'  that  'minds  me  that  neither  of  us 
'tended  to   the  petitions  for  the  emancipation  of  these 


A  DEAD  CLIENT.  135 

gals  at  the  last  term  of  our  Court.  I  thought  o'  it 
one  night  during  the  term,  an'  did  'low  to  do  it  the 
very  next  day,  but  I  quite  forgot  it  then.  Of  course^ 
you  thought  I  would  see  to  it.  You  ain't  ter  blame. 
But  you  mus'  do  it  next  time.  The  Court  will  be  here 
agin  in  November,  an'  you  must  look  after  it  then; 
mind  now.  Sonny,  I  may  not  be  here  then,  an'  if  I  am, 
you  must  charge  yerself  with  it,  for  the  sake  o'  that 
pore  gal,  Toinette. 

"  Stabbed,  too !  It 's  queer ;  Arthur  Lovett  was 
stabbed  in  that  same  house — let  me  see — ten  or  twelve 
— yes,  better  than  twelve — years  ago.  It  was  a  won- 
derfully mysterious  affair.  I  did  my  best  to  find  out 
the  truth  on  't,  but  never  could  satisfy  my  own  mind, 
much  less  another,  about  it. 

"You  see,  I  was  his  counsel  and  friend  as  well  as 
County  Attorney,  and  I  made  a  thorough  search  arter 
the  murderer,  but  nothin'  ever  came  on  't.  He  was 
stabbed  at  night,  sleepin'  in  his  chair  in  the  library. 
Most  folks  laid  it  on  his  sisters,  an'  at  first  I  did,  too 
— especially  when  I  found  he  had  not  signed  his  will, 
which  he  had  drawn  up  in  his  own  hand  and  would 
probably  have  executed  the  next  day.  Indeed,  he  had 
spoken  to  me  about  it  several  days  before,  and  said 
that  he  should  make  a  will  before  he  left  on  his  bridal 
trip.  He  was  to  have  been  married  the  next  day,  and 
by  his  will  he  intended  to  have  left  everything  nearly 
to  his  wife,  or  the  woman  he  would  have  married  next 
morning.  He  dying  intestate,  his  sisters  got  it,  includ- 
ing an  insurance  policy  of  twenty-five  thousand  dollars 
on  his  life.     This  made  me  more  suspicious  of  his  sis- 


136  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

ters  than  anyone  else ;  but  I  was  satisfied  that  I  was 
wrong  on  seeing  their  absolute  surprise  when  I  informed 
them  of  these  facts.  They  never  were  knowin'  to  his 
death,  that  I  am  sure  of,  but  who  was,  or  for  what 
purpose,  with  what  motive,  it  passes  me  to  say. 

"I  have  got  all  the  papers  now.  I  was  looking 
them  over  only  a  little  time  back  and  wondering  that 
no  clue  had  ever  been  found  to  his  murder  in  all  the 
time  that  has  elapsed  since.  It  's  rare  that  crime  man- 
ages to  hide  so  long;  I  don't  think  I  have  known 
another  case  like  it  in  nigh  on  to  half-a-century  of 
practice.  We  will  get  the  papers  before  you  leave,  and 
you  can  take  them  home  and  look  them  over  if  you 
choose.  You  will  find  some  in  the  bundle  not  relating 
to  this  particularly,  but  connected  with  Lovett's  bus- 
iness. You  may  find  them  all  interesting.  He  was 
party  to  one  of  the  most  important  suits  ever  decided 
by  our  Courts.  You  had  better  study  this  case  thor- 
oughly, for  it  may  sometime  involve  the  title  of  your 
estate.  I  was  never  right  satisfied  that  the  decision 
on  which  our  title  rests  is  good  law.  I  did  n't  think 
so  when  I  bought,  but  just  considered  the  chances 
fair  in  my  favor,  an'  it  was  goin'  for  nothing  a'most. 
The  place  was  first  deeded  from  old  man  Tommy  Gray 
to  Arthur  Lovett,  as  trustee  for  a  yaller  gal,  Belle,  and 
her  children,  who  lived  with  him.  She  had  been  man- 
umitted according  to  the  laws  of  New  York,  and  was 
also  directed  to  be  freed,  by  the  will  of  the  old  man, 
Peter  Lovett,  Arthur's  father.  This  provision  was 
defeated  by  the  codicil  of  the  same  will,  which  be- 
queathed to  her  certain  real  property  in  the  State,  for 


A  DEAD  CLIENT.  137 

her  use  and  occupancy.  The  Courts  refused  to  recog- 
nize the  act  of  manumission  in  New  York,  on  the 
ground  that  Belle  and  her  child  had  been  removed 
to  that  State  only  for  the  temporary  purpose  of  eman- 
cipation, and  had  very  soon  thereafter  returned  to  this 
State.  .  This  was  thought  to  be  in  fraud  of  our  statute 
upon  the  subject,  as  it  unquestionably  was,  so  far  as 
the  motives  and  intent  of  the  master  were  concerned. 
At  the  old  man's  death  they  were  adjudged  to  be  still 
slaves,  and  were  taken  into  possession  by  the  executors 
as  part  of  the  assets  of  the  old  man  Peter's  estate. 
You  will  find  the  case,  so  far  as  it  was  reported,  in 
the  eighth  of  Iredell. 

"  Now,  you  see  at  once,  that  if  she  or  her  heirs, 
at  any  time,  should  succeed  in  getting  his  decision  re- 
versed— as  I  am  of  the  opinion  that  it  would  be,  if  it 
should  ever  be  in  their  power  to  bring  it  up  for  con- 
sideration, from  a  different  standpoint,  or  even  in 
another  tribunal — it  might  be  a  troublesome  matter 
for  us. 

"  I  have  often  wondered  what  the  United  States 
Courts  would  do  if  this  question  should  ever  be  fairly 
presented  to  them.  The  act  of  emancipation  in  New 
York,  if  regular  and  in  accordance  with  their  statutes, 
and  I  have  examined  into  this  case  and  think  it  was, 
clothed  the  gal.  Belle,  co  instante^  with  all  the  rights 
of  the  richest  white  woman  in  the  country  before  the 
law.  Can  the  intention  of  her  former  owner,  however 
fraudulent,  deprive  her  of  these  rights .''  It  may  be  said 
that  she  was  cognizant  of  his  act,  but  she  was  then  a 
chattel,  and  could  not  be  a  party  to  a  fraud,  whether 

10 


J 38  A   ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

affecting  her  manumission  or  not.  Surely  her  master's 
fraudulent  or  unlawful  intent  could  not  operate  to  defeat 
her  of  the  rights  which  the  statute  of  that  State  guar- 
anteed her. 

"  It  is  one  of  those  mixed  questions  which  can 
never  be  decided  with  strict  obedience  to  logic,  and 
yet  be  entirely  just.  Or,  rather,  it  is  a  question  which 
one  series  of  logical  deductions  will  decide  in  the  affirm- 
ative, and  another,  equally  logical,  in  the  negative.  If 
we  regard  Belle  as  having  been  first,  last,  and  all  the 
time  a  chattel  merely,  then  the  decision  is  correct. 
But  if  we  consider  her  as  a  human  being,  with  the 
rights,  powers  and  privileges  of  such,  merely  removed 
by  the  operation  of  law,  and  consider  the  act  of  eman- 
cipation as  one  personal  to  herself,  then  it  is  wrong. 
The  effects,  too,  are  equally  inharmonious.  If  the 
decision  is  correct,  the  gal,  Belle,  loses  the  rights  which 
the  law  declares — the  statute  law  of  New  York,  I 
mean, — she  is  entitled  to  maintain.  If  it  is  erroneous, 
then  the  creditors  of  her  master  lose  their  right  to  sub- 
ject his  property  to  the  payment  of  their  just  debts. 
The  real  irreconcilability  of  these  two  lines  of  thought 
was  first  pointed  out  to  me  by  Arthur  Lovett,  and  I 
must  say  the  puzzle  has  gone  far  to  convince  me  in  fact 
that  the  state  of  slavery  was  designed  to  be  a  temporary 
one  merely,  and,  on  account  of  its  inconsistencies  could 
never  obtain  a  permanent  place  in  the  laws  and  insti- 
tutions of  a  free  country. 

"  Suppose,  now,  that  Belle  Lovett,  or  her  children, 
should  ever  be  in  a  condition  to  present  this  matter  in 
a  tangible  form  to  a  United  States  Court,  what  would 


A  DEAD  CLIENT.  139 

be  the  result?  Candidly,  Geoffrey,  I  don't  see  how  we 
could  fail  to  go  to  the  wall.  I  am  satisfied  our  title 
would  be  worthless — provided  the  original  deed  to  Ar- 
thur Lovett,  as  trustee,  should  be  found,  or  could  be 
proven.  You  see  it  was  never  registered,  and,  in  fact, 
has  not  been  seen  since  the  gal,  Belle,  was  taken  by  the 
Executor.  I  always  thought  that  it  was  in  Arthur  Lov- 
ett's  possession  after  Belle,  pore  gal,  was  taken  off  and 
sold — though  he  denied  knowing  anything  about  it, 
saying  he  had  not  seen  it  for  years,  and  assented,  or 
rather  submitted,  to  the  making  of  another  deed  by 
the  old  man  Gray,  to  himself  individually.  As  the  par- 
ties were  the  same  as  in  the  former  deed,  this,  even 
when  recorded,  can  only  be  of  value  to  pass  the  prop- 
erty, in   so   far   as  it  is  a  renewal   of  the   original  one. 

"  I  looked  over  Lovett's  papers  carefully,  after  his 
death,  but  could  find  nothing  of  the  missing  deed. 
The  gal.  Belle,  must  have  carried  it  off  with  her,  or  she 
may  have  placed  it  in  the  hands  of  some  person  to 
hold  for  her,  with  the  idea  of  sometime  obtaining  her 
rights  thereby.  I  have  been  looking  for  a  suit  about 
the  matter  from  year  to  year. 

"But  the  strangest  thing  about  it  is  that  I  cannot 
find  the  gal  herself.  I  tried  to  trace  her  out,  after 
Lovett  died  and  I  had  bought  the  place,  to  see  if  I 
could  not  compromise  the  matter  with  her,  by  freeing 
her  and  her  children.  I  never  felt  quite  right  about 
it,  for  I  got  the  property  for  a  tithe  of  its  value  be- 
cause people  were  so  sartin'  that  the  gal's  claim  would 
sometime  be  urged. 

"It's    a    queer    thing,    Geoffrey,    but    the    older   you 


140  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

grow  the  more  you'll  notice  it,  that  the  downright  honest 
notions  of  the  people  ain't  far  from  the  law  and  equity 
of  things.  It  makes  little  difference  what  prejudice  or 
passion  may  say.  The  vox  populi  is  not  the  voice  of 
God  when  it  comes  in  anger,  rage  or  disappointment, 
with  hot  blood  and  violence.  It  is  not  vox  Dei,  but 
more  probably  the  opposite,  when  it  comes  with  a 
roar  and  a  shout,  fervid  and  wild.  Do  n't  trust  it 
then,  Geoffrey,  never.  But  when  it  comes  calm  and 
deliberate,  in  the  quiet  chat  of  neighbors,  or  rises  in  a 
man's  mind  as  he  smokes  his  pipe  alone,  or  gives  his 
notions  to  his  ole  woman  by  the  firelight  after  supper, 
then  I've  ginerally  found  it  was  better  law  than  we 
ordinarily  get  in  the  Reports.  When  it  comes  in  that 
way,  Geoffrey,  the  people's  voice  is  so  nigh  what  God 
means,  that  one  is  taking  onreasonable  risks  when  he 
goes  agin  it.  Remember  that.  Sonny,  remember  that. 
I  took  sich  risk  when  I  bought  the  Lovett  place.  I 
don't  know  why.  Perhaps  I  had  a  lingerin'  notion  that 
I  would,  in  effect,  carry  out  Arthur  Lovett's  will — set 
the  gal  an'  her  children  free,  an'  make  myself  whole 
out  of  the  plantation — I  don't  know.  He  seemed  to 
care  more  about  that  than  anything  else,  as  you'll  see 
by  reading  his  will. 

"  Ruthy  always  told  me  that  if  I  did  not  make  it 
right  with  the  gal,  an'  her  children,  the  plantation  would 
just  be  a  curse  to  us  and  our  heirs.  She  never  looked 
in  a  law-book,  nor  anything  resembling  one,  except  the 
Scriptures,  but,  queerly  enough,  she  always  used  a  legal 
phrase  in  describing  my  relations  to  the  property.  She 
said   I  was  just  a  trustee  for  the  rightful  owner,  who 


A  DEAD  CLIENT.  141 

had  been  dispossessed  by  fraud  ;  which  you  know,  Son, 
is  just  what  the  courts  would  say,  if  her  'freedom 
papers '  should  prove  good,  and  the  deed  to  her  use 
should  be  established. 

"As  I  said,  I  tried  to  trace  the  gal  and  her  children. 
They  were  all  sold  by  the  Executor  at  public  auction. 
The  two  older  children  to  a  trader  who  dealt  in  fancy 
niggers  for  the  Richmond  market.  He  calculated  to 
keep  them  four  or  five  years,  as  they  was  n't  quite 
'  prime '  at  that  age,  and  then  sell  them  high.  I  found 
out  about  them  after  Arthur  died,  and  sent  a  trader 
from  t'other  side  the  river  to  buy  them  for  me.  I  got 
the  boy  but  missed  the  gal,  and  never  could  get  trace 
of  her  agin. 

"  I  took  the  boy,  Fred,  North  and  set  him  free,  and 
left  money  enough  in  trust  for  him  to  send  him  to  school 
a  right  smart  time.  He  's  a  bright  lad,  and  I  guaran- 
tee that  if  he  has  a  fair  show  he  '11  be  no  discredit  to 
the  man  that  set  him  free.  I  'd  like  to  see  him  once 
more,  for  somehow  he  's  some  sort  of  evidence  of  one 
good  deed  I  've  done.  I  'm  always  glad  to  think  I  did  it, 
too.  I  never  told  him  his  history,  but  when  I  am  dead 
I  want  you  to  write  to  him  and  get  a  fair  and  square 
quit-claim.  He  is  of  age  now  and  would  probably  give 
one,  for  I  tell  you,  my  son,  he  nigh  about  worships 
Manuel  Hunter,  and  I  would  give  more  to  deserve  his 
gratitude  than  anythin'  else  in  this  world.  I  can  't 
bear  that  he  should  know  how  I  hev  been  cheating 
him  as  it  were  till  I  'm  past  knowin'  what  he  says  of 
my  conduct." 

I  am  sure,  father,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  he  has  reason 


XI 


142  A  7?  OVAL  GENTLE  MA  ISr. 

to  be  grateful.  If  you  are  the  trustee,  have  you  not 
used  the  interest  in  the  estate  which  you  acquired  for 
his  good?  The  law  made  him  a  slave,  and  he  would 
probably  have  remained  so  if  it  had  not  been  for  your 
trusteeship,  as  you  term  it." 

"  Perhaps  you  're  right,  my  son.  I  wish  Ruthy  could 
have  heard  her  son — her  favorite,  too,  you  always  were 
— defending  my  conduct  in  that  way.  I  've  a  notion 
though  that  she  was  something  of  that  mind  herself; 
for  when  I  came  home  an'  told  her  that  I  had  put  the 
boy  at  school,  she  half-started  out  of  her  chair,  when 
she  had  n't  stood  alone  for  years,  and  said,  '  God  bless 
you,  Manuel!'  and  then  she  clasped  her  hands,  and 
her  lips  moved,  and  the  tears  ran  down  her  poor,  pale 
cheeks.  An'  that  night,  when  she  was  wheeled  out  to 
supper,  she  looked  as  bright  and  beaming  as  a  glorified 
angel.  An'  when  she  asked  me  not  to  go  back  to  the 
office,  but  to  sit  an'  smoke  in  her  room  and  hev  a  cosy 
chat  with  her,  I  couldn't  refuse,  though  some  clients 
war  a-waitin'  for  me.  An'  so  I  sat  by  her  easy-chair 
well  into  the  night. 

"  She  said  she  'd  never  been  so  proud  of  me  since 
I  refused  a  fee  from  the  prosecution  an'  volunteered  to 
defend  a  pore  gal  for  killin'  her  master  in  defense  of 
her  virtue.  That  was  when  I  first  came  to  the  bar  an' 
fees  was  scarce  an'  small,  but  I  could  n't  prosecute  that 
innocent  gal  for  defending  her  honor  against  her  mas- 
ter's lust.     Ruthy  never  ceased  praisin'  me  for  that. 

"  I  knew  that  night  she  wouldn't  be  with  me  long, 
for  she  was  too  nigh  a  saint  to  stay  on  earth.  Oh, 
Geoffy,  boy,  ye  do  n't  know  what  a  woman  yer  mother 


A  DEAD  CLIENT.  143 

was !  It  's  little  Manuel  Hunter  would  ha'  been  on 
earth  without  her;  an'  if  he  's  any  hope  of  heaven,  it  's 
all  through  her.  I  know  she  's  up  there  with  the  angels 
now,  and  I  hope  to  see  her  soon." 

The  two  men  wept  in  silence  over  the  memory  of 
the  sainted  woman  to  whose  influence  so  much  of  the 
good  in  both  was  due. 

The  old  man  at  length  broke  the  silence,  saying : 
"  I  'm  glad  we  came  to  talk  of  these  things,  Geoffrey. 
Now  you  '11  understand  my  will  better.  I  made  it 
some  years  ago,  as  you  know,  but  I  added  an  important 
codicil  orly  a  fevv'  weeks  back.  It 's  about  that  woman 
Belle.  I  can  't  get  rid  of  an  impression  that  she  's  alive 
somewhere,  and  I  want  her  hunted  up  and  freed;  an' 
when  that  is  done — not  before,  boy — make  the  best 
bargain  with  her  that  you  can.  Mind,  you  're  to  look 
sharp  for  her.  You  are  young  and  can  travel.  I  know 
only  this — she  was  sold  to  Buck  Loyd,  an'  he  took 
her  to  Alabama — at  least  I  s'pose  he  took  her  there— 
but  what  came  of  her  atterwards  I  never  could  make 
out.  He  lived  a  wild,  roving  life,  an'  no  one  could 
ever  track  him  so  as  to  find  the  gal.  I  sent  down 
to  the  administrator's  sale  of  his  estate,  but  could 
get  no  trace  of  her.  In  fact,  he  had  lost  more  'n 
half  the  bills  of  sale  for  the  niggers  which  he  had.  1 
bought  Mabel  then,  because  yer  mother  wanted  a  good 
cook  and  she  was  recommended  as  something  extra, 
as  she  is.  I  saw  the  girl  Belle  several  times,  w^hen 
she  was  with  Lovett  at  the  Lodge,  and  should  know 
her  any  time  if  I  should  see  her — especially  by  her 
long   black    hair,    the    finest    I    ever   saw.     Loyd    prob- 


U4  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN: 

ably  traded  her  off,  perhaps  gambled  her  off,  in  some 
drunken  spree,  and  I  am  afraid  the  chances  for  find- 
ing her  are  not  good ;  but  you  '11  try,  boy,  won't 
you  ?  That  's  the  only  thing  on  my  mind,  Geoffy. 
You  are  my  executor.  You  an'  the  gals  will  divide 
the  property  equally  after  taking  out  a  share  for  your 
aunt,  pore  woman.  Mabel,  you  know,  is  to  be  freed ; 
remember,  I  promised  your  mother  and  the  petition  is 
already  filed,  and  I  promised  her,  too,  that  Toinette 
should  be  free  at  the  same  time.  You  '11  make  yer  old 
father  glad  and  do  it,  so  that  I  can  tell  Ruthy  that 
we  've  done  as  she  wished,  won't  you,  Geoffy .?  Now, 
don't  forgit.  Son,  don't  forgit." 

"Yes,  father,"  answered  the  son,  "I  will  attend  to  it 
at  the  next  term,  and  we  will  have  them  both  freed,  and 
sent  away.     You  will  remember  it  if  I  should  forget." 

"  Thank  ye,  Son,  thank  ye ;  but  Manuel  Hunter  '11 
have  to  answer  at  another  bar,  afore  the  Judge  calls 
over  the  docket  in  the  Court  House  yonder,  again. 
Somehow  it  don't  seem  as  if  I  should  see  you  again 
soon.  But  go  home  now.  You  're  needed  there,  an' 
keep  close  watch.  Somehow,  I  think  ye  '11  clear  up 
that  mystery  yet.  Keep  watch — keep  watch.  There's 
nothing  like  a  steady  eye  in  this  world.  Good  bye," 
and  the  old  man  leaned  back  wearily  in  his  chair, 
while  his  son  took  the  books  and  papers  that  his 
father  had   referred   to  and  returned  to  the  Lodge. 

The  next  day,  the  mind  of  Manuel  Hunter — the 
clearest-headed  lawyer  in  his  circuit  for  many  a  year 
— had  lapsed  into  childish  imbecility,  and  his  busy  past 
had  become  to  him — a  dream. 


A  DEAD  CLIENT.  145 

That  night  Geoffrey  Hunter  sat  alone  in  the  library 
at  Lovett  Lodge,  and  examined  the  papers  referring  to 
the  life  and  death  of  his  predecessor  in  its  possession, 
Arthur  Lovett.  The  first  was  the  unsigned  draft  of  a 
will.  In  a  small,  distinct  and  peculiarly  unmistakable 
hand,  it  read : 

"  The  last  will  and  testajnent  of  Arthur  Lovett  of 
Lovett  Lodge, 

"  Being  of  sound  mind,  and  of  bodily  health  unim- 
paired, I,  Arthur  Lovett,  of  Lovett  Lodge,  in  the  County 
of  Cold  Spring,  State  of  North  Carolina,  do  indite  the 
following  as  my  last  will  and  testament: 

^^  Ite77i. — I  give  and  bequeath  to  each  of  my  sisters 
five  thousand  dollars. 

'"'' Lte77i. — I  give  and  bequeath  the  residue  of  my 
estate,  after  paying  all  my  debts  and  the  above  lega- 
cies, to  my  wife,  Betty,  to  be  used  for  the  purposes, 
and  upon  the  conditions,  hereinafter  named — to  wit: 

"  First. — That  she  shall  employ  such  portion  of  the 
said  estate  as  may  be  necessary,  in  securing  the  free- 
dom of  Belle  Lovett,  and  her  children  Fred,  Alice, 
and  Antoinette. 

"  The  said  Belle  Lovett  was  my  beloved  and  devoted 
servant,  and  the  said  children  are  my  own.  I  had 
supposed  her  to  be  free,  and  intended  to  repay  her 
devotion  by  such  feeble  reparation  as  our  constitution 
of  society  would  allow  me  to  make.  As  the  law  has 
mocked  my  efforts  in  this,  it  is  only  just  that  I  should 
devote  my  estate  to  securing  to  her  and  her  children 
the  liberty  of  which  her  love  and  my  selfishness  have 
deprived  them. 


146  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

"Second. — That  when  the  liberation  of  the  said 
Belle  Lovett  and  her  children  shall  have  been  accom- 
plished, my  estate  shall  be  equally  divided,  one-half  to 
go  to  my  wife  Betty,  and  one-half  to  the  woman  Belle 
and  her  children. 

'' Itejft. — I  constitute  and  appoint  Betty,  my  wife 
aforesaid,  executrix  of  this  my  last  will  and  testament, 
and  exhort  her  to  do,  without  fail,  these  acts  of  tardy 
justice,  which  my  own  weakness  of  purpose  has  pre- 
vented me  from  doing  in  my  lifetime. 

"  Ite7n. — In  case  my  said  wife  Betty  shall  fail  or  re- 
fuse to  qualify  as  executrix  of  this  my  will,  for  the  pur- 
poses herein  expressed,  then  I  hereby  constitute  and 
appoint  the  Hon.  Manuel  Hunter  executor  and  resid- 
uary legatee,  in  the  place  of  my  said  wife,  and  upon 
like  conditions,  except  that  before  entering  upon  the 
execution  of  this  devise,  I  require  that  he  shall  give 
bond,  with  good  security,  to  be  approved  by  the  Judge 
of  the  Court  of  Equity  of  the  county  aforesaid,  in  the 
sum  of  fifty  thousand  dollars,  for  the  faithful  per- 
formance   of  the  conditions  thereto  attached. 

"  And  in  case  the  said  Manuel  Hunter  shall  refuse 
to  accept  such  executorship,  then  it  is  my  will,  that 
a  trustee  be  appointed  by  the  Court  aforesaid,  to  use, 
employ,  and  expend  my  estate  so  far  as  may  be  neces- 
sary, for  the  purposes  and  in  the  manner  above-named ; 
and  all  my  estate  remaining,  after  the  said  persons  have 
been  set  at  liberty,  except  a  portion  equal  to  the  dower 
and  allowance  guaranteed  by  law  to  the  widow,  I  give 
and  bequeath  in  equal  portions  to  Belle  Lovett  and  her 
children — Fred,  Alice  and  Antoinette. 


A  DEAD  CLIENT.  147 

^^  Itei7t. — In  case  I  should  decease  before  my  now 
intended  marriage  shall  have  been  consummated,  it  is 
my  will  and  desire  that  my  intended  wife,  Betty  Cer- 
tain, in  that  event  shall  take  and  hold,  under  this  my 
will,  as  is  herein  and  heretofore  provided  for  my  wife 
Betty,  the  said  Betty  Certain  being  the  person  intended 
to  be  thus  designated,  both  as  legatee  and  executrix; 
and  I  desire  that,  in  that  event,  she  shall  do  and  per- 
form, all  and  singular,  the  acts  and  duties  devolved  on 
my  said  wife,  and  receive  all  the  benefits  conferred 
upon  her  in  this  my  last  will  and  testament. 

"  And  it  is  my  desire  that  the  said  court  shall  in 
all  things  order  and  direct  the  said  executrix,  executor, 
or  trustee,  in  the  faithful  performance  of  the  trust,  im- 
posed according  to  equity  and  good  conscience,  and 
according  to  the  plain  purport  and  intent  of  this  in- 
strument, and  without  legal  subtlety. 

"  In  testimony  whereof  I  have  hereunto  set  my  hand 
this  day  of ,   1845." 

The  signature  that  would  have  made  this  instru- 
ment valid  alone  was  lacking.  Geoffrey  Hunter  thought 
Arthur  Lovett  must  indeed  have  been  infatuated  to 
become  such  an  idiot  over  a  "  yaller  gal "  who  had 
been  his  paramour. 

"  He  must  have  been  perfectly  insane,"  was  his 
mental  comment,  "  thus  to  have  put  himself  at  variance 
with  the  laws  and  customs  of  the  entire  society  in  which 
he  lived.  It  is  strange !  There  must  be  something 
radically  wrong  in  a  condition  of  things  which  made 
this  woman  a  slave  and  this  man  her  master.  The 
institution  itself  is  well    enough,   but    there  should   be 


148  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

some  limitation  placed  upon  it.  This  woman  seems 
to  have  been  a  superior  person.  Why  has  not  the  old 
Roman  principle  been  adopted,  that  the  noble  who 
married  his  manumitted  slave  raised  her  to  his  level, 
without  reproach.  Slavery  in  the  abstract  is  right,  and 
the  proper  sphere  of  the  African  race.  Let  the  Aboli- 
tionists say  what  they  choose,  of  that  I  am  satisfied. 
But  in  the  concrete — in  individual  instances — Toinette 
now — with  harsh,  brutal  treatment — My  God  !  think  of 
Toinette  in  that  condition  !  "  He  groaned  at  the  idea. 
"  No  wonder  my  mother  wished  her  emancipated.  It 
shall  be  done  without  fail." 

And  so  the  conscience  of  the  weak,  hesitating,  dead 
Arthur  Lovett  awoke  the  dormant  sense  of  right  and 
justice  in  the  soul  of  the  prompt  and  strong  Geoffrey 
Hunter,  and  made  him,  in  spirit,  the  executor  of  the 
unsigned  testament.  Perhaps  there  was  an  analogy  in 
their  lives,  like  the  refrain  of  a  remembered  song, 
which  he  had  not  yet  recognized. 

"And  so,"  pondered  Geoffrey,  "Betty  Certain,  the 
hard-faced  woman  in  yonder,  was  to  have  been  the 
wife  of  this  visionary.  What  did  he  want  of  her  ?  Why 
would  he  have  married  her }  I  cannot  understand. 
But  of  one  thing  I  am  satisfied :  that  proposed  mar- 
riage and  this  draft  of  a  will,  either  singly  or  united, 
were  the  cause  of  his  death.  As  father  says,  '  I  feel 
as  if  I  should  sometime  clear  this  mystery  up.'  " 

The  young  man  was  evidently  becoming  interested 
in  the  events  which  had  so  mysteriously  encircled  him. 
He  filled  his  pipe,  and  applied  himself  again  to  the 
perusal   of  the  documents   before   him.     The  next  in- 


A  DEAD  CLIENT.  149 

strument  which  he  read  was  a  letter  from  Manuel 
Hunter  to  his  client,  dated  some  months  previous  to 
Lovett's  death  : 

"  My  Dear  Sir  : 

"  I  have  just  returned  from  the  Supreme  Court, 
where  the  cause  of  Albert  Chasteen,  Executor  of  Peter 
Lovett,  vs.  Arthur  Lovett  and  the  heirs-at-law  of  Peter 
Lovett  has  been  argued  and  decided. 

"  Contrary  to  my  expectations  and  positive  convic- 
tions, we  have  been  thrown.  Even  now  I  am  satisfied 
that  we  are  right  and  that  the  Court  is  wrong.  But 
it  is  useless  to  argue  that. 

"  The  decision  proceeds  upon  these  grounds : 

"  I  St.  That  the  emancipation  in  the  State  of  New 
York  was  invalid  as  being  against  public  policy,  and  in 
fraud  of  the  jurisdiction  of  the  Courts  of  this  State. 
Although  the  act  of  emancipation  was  in  the  State  of 
New  York,  yet  as  the  girl  Belle  was  taken  there  for 
the  express  purpose  of  being  freed  and  soon  thereafter 
returned  to  this  State,  it  is  held  that  this  act  was  to 
avoid  the  statute  of  this  State,  and  the  emancipation  is 
therefore  fraudulent  and  invalid. 

"  2d.  That  the  clause  in  the  will  of  Peter  Lovett 
providing  for  the  emancipation  of  the  girl  at  his 
decease  is  void  by  reason  of  the  codicil  which  be- 
queaths certain  real  estate  to  a  trustee  for  her  use  and 
occupancy,  which  they  held  to  be  inconsistent  with  the 
law  requiring  the  removal  of  a  freed  person  from  the 
State,  and  consequently  void. 

"  This  decision,  of  course,  applies  to  all  of  hei   chil- 


150  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

dren.  They  are  slaves  with  her.  The  decision  pre- 
sumes everything  against  liberty,  rather  than  in  its  favor. 
It  is  correct  enough  so  far  as  it  affects  the  master,  but 
it  utterly  ignores  the  rights  which  emancipation  con- 
ferred on  the  girl.  It  defeats  the  girl  of  her  liberty 
because  her  master  intended  a  fraud. 

"  I  tried  to  get  Chasteen  to  consent  to  a  sale  to  me, 
but  he  said  he  had  had  so  much  trouble  with  the  gal 
that  she  and  the  children  should  only  be  sold  on  the 
block,  adding  that  he  hoped  they  would  go  into  the 
hands  of  traders  so  that  you  might  never  see  them  again. 

"  I  am  satisfied  he  will  do  all  he  can  to  prevent 
your  recovering  possession. 

"  I  would  advise  that  you  assume  indifference,  let 
the  sale  pass  a  short  time,  and  then  deal  with  the 
purchasers.  Besides,  I  wish  to  examine  whether  some 
steps  cannot  be  taken  to  have  this  decision  reviewed, 
which  I  think  might  be  done  should  any  of  them  be 
sold  out  of  the  State. 

"  I  was  never  more  inclined  to  concur  in  your  no- 
tion about  the  evil  and  misfortune  of  slavery  than  now. 
It  is  either  wrong  or  wrongly  managed. 

"Your  friend,  Manuel  Hunter." 

The  rough  old  lawyer  and  his  somewhat  pampered 
son,  strangely  enough,  seem  to  have  felt  the  same  truth 
in  considering  Arthur  Lovett  and  his  quadroon.  In 
the  practical  concrete  both  were  slaveholders.  In  the 
abstract,  they  were  not  so  far  removed  from  the  Abo- 
litionists of  that  day,  as  either  themselves  or  those 
fanatics  would  have  maintained. 


A  DEAD  CLIENT.  151 

He  read  several  other  papers,  but  none  seemed  to 
show  any  light  upon  the  questions  he  sought  to  solve. 

At  length  he  came  to  the  last  in  the  package.  It 
was  carefully  sealed,  and  a  superscription  covered  the 
entire  face.  It  was  in  the  handwriting  of  Arthur  Lov- 
ett,  and  ran  as  follows : 

"  To  Belle  Lovett,  whom  God  designed  for  my 
wife,  who  is  the  mother  of  my  children,  but  whom 
society  made  my  slave,  and  my  own  weakness  made 
the  victim  of  the  most  terrible  wrong — or  to  any  of  her 
children  should  she  die  before  being  legally  emanci- 
pated. 

"  Let  no  other  hand  break  these  seals.      A.  L." 

On  the  back  was  written,  in  the  sturdy,  irregular 
hand  of  Manuel  Hunter : 

"  I  have  been  strongly  tempted  to  disregard  the  in- 
junction of  Arthur  Lovett,  to  see  if  some  clue  to  his 
murder  might  not  be  obtained  from  this  paper  but 
the  last  request  of  a  friend  is  too  sacred  to  be  broken. 

"M.  H." 

Geoffrey  Hunter  took  his  pen  from  the  table  and 
wrote  these  words  underneath : 

"  The  example  of  a  father  restrains  the  hand  of 
his  son.  G.  H." 

He  replaced  the  papers  in  the  package  and  put 
them  in  his  private  drawer. 


CHAPTER   XIII, 

WARNED. 

BY  the  affliction  of  Manuel  Hunter,  the  care  of  his 
entire  estate  devolved  upon  Geoffrey,  he  having 
been  appointed  trustee  upon  his  father  being  adjudged 
of  unsound  mind. 

Examination  of  his  father's  estate  fully  disclosed 
the  fact  that  he  had  not  boasted  without  cause,  of  his 
material  success  in  life.  Patient  industry  and  unflag- 
ging zeal,  united  with  foresight  and  prudence  in  his 
investments,  had  borne  their  usual  fruits  to  the  old 
lawyer.  It  was,  however,  soon  discovered  by  Geoffrey, 
that  his  father's  kindly  feeling  and  accommodating 
spirit  had  led  him  to  endorse  for  several  parties  to  a 
very  large  amount,  enough,  in  fact,  to  nearly  swallow 
up  his  accumulations,  should  his  estate  be  obliged  to 
pay  them  all.  There  was  little  apprehension  of  this, 
however,  as  most  of  the  principals  were  in  good  circum- 
stances and  abundantly  able  to  discharge  all  liabilities. 

To  prepare  the  estate  for  a  speedy  settlement  in 
case  of  his  father's  decease,  now  a  matter  to  be  daily 
expected,  would  require,  however,  no  little  time  and 
attention.  To  this  task  Geoffrey  addressed  himself 
with  the  energy  and  concentration  of  purpose  which 
marked  his  nature  when  fully  aroused.  For  several 
months  he  did,  and  thought  of,  little  else.  His  time 
was  mostly  passed  at  the  Home,  and  the  father's  office 


WARNED.  153 

became  almost  as  regular  a  place  of  resort,  day  by- 
day,  to  the  son,  as  it  had  been  to  the  father  in  his 
busiest  years. 

Meanv/hile  the  household  at  Lovett  Lodge  was  still 
kept  up,  though  with  only  the  occasional  presence  of 
the  master.  Once  in  a  week  or  two  he  would  drive 
over  to  pass  the  Sunday,  and  remain  a  few  days  to 
see  that  matters  were  progressing  favorably. 

Immediately  upon  her  recovery,  Toinette  had  de- 
voted herself  to  the  piano,  which  had  been  opened  for 
her  amusement  during  convalescence,  and  to  such  des- 
ultory reading  as  the  library  afforded,  and  which  struck 
her  fancy  at  the  moment. 

The  question  had  often  crossed  Geoffrey's  mind, 
even  amid  the  engrossing  duties  of  his  present  life,  as 
to  what  was  the  best  preparation  which  he  could  bestow 
upon  this  favorite,  to  prepare  her  for  that  freedom  which 
at  no  distant  day  awaited  her.  Her  condition,  even  in 
the  North,  would  be  anomalous,  and,  in  his  view,  even 
pitiable.  He  earnestly  desired,  he  often  said  to  him- 
self, to  do  what  was  wisest.  She  would,  when  eman- 
cipated and  at  the  North,  be  an  outcast,  nothing  more — 
nothing  less.  The  race  to  which  she  was  nearest  akin 
— he  often  questioned  whether  she  was  akin  to  any 
other — would  look  upon  her  with  scorn.  It  seemed 
as  if  degradation  awaited  her  in  any  view  which  could 
be  taken  of  the  future.  She  was  too  light  to  be  black, 
and,  of  course,  she  could  never  be  white.  Poor  girl! 
it  was  not  her  fault  but  her  misfortune. 

And  thus,  while  he  speculated,  she  read  his  books, 

and  learned  his  music,  and  grew  into  a  rarely  beautiful 
11 


15-i  -/  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

woman,  with  a  quick  and  teeming  fancy,  and  a  demeanor 
neither  of  the  servant  nor  of  the  equal,  the  outgrowth 
of  her  undefined  position  in  the  household,  solving 
the  question,  in  fact,  before  he  could  perfect  his  theory. 

Soon  after  her  recovery,  Geoffrey  had  taken  Betty 
Certain  into  his  confidence  so  far  as  to  inform  her  of 
the  intended  emancipation  of  Toinette,  and  she  spared 
no  pains  to  impart  to  the  young  slave  girl,  to  whom 
she  seemed  much  attached,  such  useful  information  as 
she  had  acquired,  which,  though  by  no  means  startling, 
was  by  far  greater  than  would  have  been  supposed 
from  observation  of  her  countenance  and  person,  or 
from  knowledge  of  her  surroundings  in  life.  Somehow 
and  at  some  period,  she  had  managed  to  pick  up  what 
might  be  termed  "a  tolerable  English  education,"  wheth- 
er from  one  of  the  log  school-houses  not  very  abundant 
in  that  region,  or  through  the  charity  of  some  teacher 
at  the  "  Silk-Stocking  Academy,"  on  "  Gentleman 
Ridge,"  it  is  unnecessary  to  enquire.  In  addition  to 
this,  she  had  great  powers  of  observation,  and  was 
given  to  reading  in  an  abstracted,  unaccountable  way 
— as  it  seemed  to  Toinette — the  books  upon  the  library 
shelves.  They  did  not  seem  to  be  new  to  her,  but 
rather,  old  friends,  and  her  quaint  comments  showed 
her  intimacy  with  the  thoughts  they  contained. 

And  so  for  months  they  dwelt  almost  alone,  the 
middle-aged,  hard-featured,  poor  white  woman,  and  the 
young  slave  girl  just  budding  into  womanhood,  under 
the  roof  of  the  young  Antinous,  whose  time  was  then 
given  to  conquering  the  difficulties  which  his  new  duties 
devolved  upon  him. 


WARNED.  155 

Time  wrought  a  wonderful  change  in  old  Mabel. 
She  seemed  to  have  lost  all  affection  for  the  child  she 
had  once  so  fondly  loved.  Mother  and  child  did  not 
meet  until  the  Christmas  came  again  and  Toinette  went 
to  pass  the  season  of  festivity  at  her  old  home. 

What  was  her  surprise  when,  meeting  her  mother 
at  the  kitchen  door,  in  response  to  her  joyful  greeting 
old  Mabel  repulsed  her  with  the  utmost  coolness,  and, 
despite  all  her  efforts,  refused  to  bestow  any  loving 
attention  upon  her. 

"  Go  back  to  yer  Mass'r  Geoffrey,"  she  said,  grim- 
ly. "  Yer  haint  been  my  gal  since  the  ole  lyin'  rascal, 
that  sits  mumblin'  yonder  to  hisself,  an'  waitin'  fer  de 
debble  to  answer,  giv'  ye  to  his  son.  I  do  n't  want  to 
see  ye.     I  wish  ye  was  dead." 

"  But,  mother,"  said  the  affrighted  girl,  "  do  n't  you 
know  we  are  both  to  be  free  when  Mass'r  Manuel  dies  1 
It's  in  his  will.  Mass'r  Geoffrey  told  me  so  hisself. 
An'  then  he  's  going  to  take  us  North  somewhere  and 
give  us  a  nice  home." 

"  Free  !  "  said  old  Mabel  with  a  sneer.  "  Free  !  Ye 
like  the  word  an'  the  idee,  do  n't  ye  }  I  used  to  like 
it  once,  but  I  hates  it  now  worse  'n  de  debble  does 
the  sound  o'  prayer.  Free  !  I  've  heard  it  so  many 
times  that  I'd  hardly  believe  it  if  the  Lord  God  his- 
self, if  ther'  is  one,  should  tell  me  so  with  his  own 
mouth.  I  could  tell  ye — but  whar  's  the  use.  Yer  jes' 
Mass'r  Geoffrey  Hunter's  nigger,  body  an'  soul,  an'  he 
aint  gwine  to  give  up  either  one  till  it 's  ready  for  de 
debble's  pickin' !  I  tells  ye  so,  an'  I  knows.  Did  n't 
dat  ar  ole  liar  Manuel  Hunter  tell  Miss  Ruth,  as  is  a 


156  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN-. 

blessed  angel  in  Heaven  to-day,  if  there  is  sech  a  place, 
on  his  bended  knee,  an'  she  a-dyin',  with  the  light  of 
Heaven  shinin'  on  her  face — did  n't  I  hear  him  tell 
her  dat  ole  Mabel  an'  her  little  gal  Toinette  should  be 
free'  an  given  a  home  in  a  free  land,  atter  she  'd  done 
wid  'em?  An'  didn't  I  feel  like  goin'  down  on  my 
knees  an*  kissin'  de  dust  off  his  feet,  cos  I  believed 
him  ?  More  fool  I,  for  't  wa'  n't  the  fust  time  lips  like 
his  hed  lied  to  me — lips  dat  orter  hev  turned  cold  in 
death  'fore  dey  let  one  false  word  come  fru  dem  to  my 
ear.  But  dey  lied,  an'  he  lied.  He  jes'  kep'  us  right 
on,  an'  when  young  Mass'r  axed  for  ye,  he  jes'  give 
ye  away  as  light  as  a  penny  to  a  beggar. 

"  An'  when  I  went  to  him  an'  tole  him  of  his 
promise,  an'  axed  him  not  to  let  ye  go,  he  would  not 
heed  me,  cos  he  'd  promised  ye  to  Mass'r  Geoffrey,  as 
ef  he  had  n't  promised  de  dear  dead  saint,  dat  kep' 
de  debble  off  his  pore  soul  so  many  years  by  her  love 
an'  prayers.  I  cussed  him  den,  an'  de  Lor'  heard  it, 
ef  he  do  n't  take  much  'count  ov  us  pore  niggers  often. 

"  An'  now,  see  de  pore  critter !  An'  he  aint  half 
over  it  yit.  His  body  's  here,  but  I  tell  ye,  gal,  he  's 
in  hell-torment,  as  he  ought  to  be.  De  debble  made 
a  good  trade  de  day  Manuel  Hunter  guv  ye  to  his  son. 
He' s  gittin'  his  pay  now.  I  loves  to  see  him  maun- 
derin'  an'  putterin'  about,  with  less  sense  dan  de  mean- 
est nigger  on  de  place,  an'  I  say  to  myself,  Dat's  de 
man  Hunter,  dat  give  away  yer  chile,  to  go  thru  all 
dat  you  've  faced  in  yer  life,  agin.  But  he  can't  pay 
it  all.     Geoff  Hunter's   turn  'U  come  some  day. 

"Ye  pore   gal,  yer  aint  tu  blame.     I  don't  want  tu 


WARNED.  157 

hurt  ye,"  she  said,  as  Toinette  sobbed  and  wept.  "  De 
debble's  got  ye  an'  ye  can't  help  it.  It  's  a  pity  dat 
knife  did  not  make  an  end  of  ye.  Ye  aint  to  blame, 
I  knows.  Ye  aint  yer  own,  but  Geoff  Hunter's.  I 
do  n't  hate  ye,  gal,  but  jes'  can  't  abide  to  see  ye.  Go 
back  to  yer  master,  an'  if  sin  ever  scotches  yer  white 
soul  his'n  '11  hev  tu  pay  for  't  as  sure  as  there  's  anything 
like  justice  in  Heaven." 

That  night  Toinette  went  back  to  Lovett  Lodge, 
confused,  bewildered;  wonderingly  asking  herself  the 
question  after  whose  solution  so  many  have  vainly 
groped.  The  infinite  problem  of  life  made  her  heart 
heavy  and  her  head  dull.  What  wonder  if  the  poor 
child,  standing  in  the  darkness — walled  in  by  stern  ne- 
cessity— lost  sight  of  the  dim  spot  of  far  away  blue 
sky  above.  What  if  she  deemed  the  prison  walls  in- 
surmountable byhope  or  faith  and  caught  at  the  mock- 
eries it  held  to  cheer  her  hopeless  misery. 

She  was  no  more  a  child.  She  lost  her  girlhood 
the  hour  she  bade  her  mother  "good  bye."  A  bright 
rosy  glamour  hung  over  the  earth  when  the  petted 
slave-child,  Toinette,  started  to  meet  her  mother  that 
day ; — a  hot,  yellow  glare  oppressed  the  eyelids  of  the 
pampered  slave-woman  as  she  returned. 

The  change  had  come,  the  die  was  cast.  She  could 
never  be  what  she  had  been.  She  felt  that  dimly. 
What  would  she  be  ?  She  did  not  know — hardly  cared. 
Her  mother  had  told  her  to  go  back  to  her  Mass'r 
Geoffrey.  She  would  go.  He  was  kind  to  her.  She 
thought  he  was  the  only  one  who  cared  for  her  now. 

So  she  fled  from  the  Mother  to  the  blaster. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

*'OH,      LIMED      soul!" 

GEOFFREY  HUNTER  had  resumed  his  residence 
at  the  Lodge  before  another  summer  came.  The 
burden  of  his  father's  business  had  either  become  less, 
or  he  bore  it  more  easily,  as  he  became  accustomed 
to  it. 

The  relations  of  the  inmates  of  the  Lodge  to  each 
other  seemed,  however,  to  have  changed,  when  he  came 
to  be  again  an  accustomed  presence  within  its  walls. 
For  a  time  there  was  an  attempt  upon  the  part  of  all 
to  take  up  the  thread  of  life  at  the  point  where  the 
paralysis  of  the  elder  Hunter  had  separated  the  strands, 
but  it  was  a  futile  one.  The  sensuous  young  Epicurean 
was  then  trying  to  prepare,  in  an  impossible  manner,  for 
an  unheard  of  life,  the  budding  mind  of  a  slave-child. 
The  same  being,  grown  to  womanhood,  conscious  of  her 
charms,  and  with  the  memory  of  former  intimacy  and 
favor,  constituted  a  whole  which  Geoffrey  Hunter  in 
his  Utopian  dreams  had  never  fully  counted  on.  The 
reader  will  remember  that  he  had  at  first  viewed  her  as 
a  chattel,  mentally  calculating  her  probable  market  value 
at  maturity,  and  afterwards  as  a  curious  toy  on  which 
he  might  try  such  visionary  experiments  of  the  humani- 
tarian type  as  his  fertile  brain  might  suggest.  Now,  he 
was  forced  to  look  upon  her  in  another  light — that  of 


"  OH,  LIMED  SOUL  !  "  159 

a  woman.  Already  the  country  gossip  had  seized  upon 
the  significant  facts  of  his  household  menage  to  couple 
his  name  with  Toinette's  in  good-humored  banter. 

The  rumor  was  not  of  that  character  w^hich  could  be, 
or,  in  that  state  of  society,  even  needed  to  be,  put  down. 
There  was  no  disgrace,  scarcely  an  impropriety,  coupled 
with  the  relation  it  implied.  It  awakened  him,  how- 
ever, to  some  facts  which  most  probably  had  before 
that  unconsciously  exerted  an  influence  on  his  esthetic 
nature,  among  which  was  the  wonderful  beauty  of  his 
young  bond-woman. 

The  familiarity  of  the  child  had  given  way  to  the 
consciousness  of  womanhood,  and  as  she  passed  before 
his  sight  here  and  there  about  the  house  in  tasks  quite 
self-imposed  he  could  not  shut  from  his  mind  an  un- 
easy, indefinite  feeling  that  everything  was  not  precisely 
as  he  could  desire.  He  became  moody  and  fitful  in 
his  temper.  He  could  not  but  see  that  gradually  and 
almost  unconsciously  Toinette  had  assumed  control  of 
the  household ;  that  she  had  been  placed  by  him  in  a 
false  position,  but  one  which  she  filled  with  complete- 
ness and  grace.  He  was  sorry  she  was  there,  yet  would 
not  have  her  elsewhere.  He  did  not  analyze  his  own 
feelings,  but  only  knew  that  he  was  sorry  she  was  a 
slave,  yet  could  not  bear  to   send  her  away  from  him. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  the  young  sybarite  felt  the 
charm  of  her  presence.  To  a  form  of  that  lithe  grace 
and  peculiar  roundness  which  only  a  life  of  unrestrained 
freedom  under  a  Southern  sun  in  youth  can  bestow, 
Toinette  added  a  face  of  singular  loveliness.  Eyes  of 
dark  liquid  brown,  heavy  brows,  and  a  wealth  of  flow- 


L60  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

ing  locks,  so  dark  as  just  to  avoid  the  name  of  jetty, 
which  seemed  ahnost  to  burden  with  their  weight  the 
shapely  head  and  slender  neck.  Her  cheek  had  that 
changeful  softness  which  marks  the  perfection  of  the 
brunette,  and  her  manner  was  that  rare  blending  of 
boldness  and  timidity  which  provokes  question  and  ap- 
proach, yet  baffles  inquiry  and  courts  retirement.  One 
of  those  female  characters  which  no  man  can  help  try- 
ing to  read,  yet  which  so  few  are  able  to  solve ;  one  of 
those  combinations  of  attributes  which  give  to  some 
rare  instances  of  womanhood  the  power  to  "  raise  mor- 
tals to  the  skies,"  or  "  drag  angels  down." 

Geoffrey  Hunter  looked  upon  this  vision  of  loveli- 
ness and  forgot  that  she  was  his  chattel-real.  Her 
presence  brought  light,  and  her  voice  was  music  to 
him.  He  listened  for  her  footstep  and  was  moody 
and  ill-tempered  if  she  were  absent.  He  did  not  stop 
to  inquire  why,  but  her  presence  soothed  him.  He 
loved  to  see  her,  to  hear  her  sing,  to  have  her  do  any 
of  the  thousand  trivial  services  which  brought  her 
near  him.  It  flattered  his  self-esteem,  and  gave  him  a 
pleasure  which  he  took  care  not  to  mar  by  too  close 
an  analysis,  when,  at  length,  he  discovered  that  he  was 
the  sun  of  this  beautiful  slave-girl's  life ;  that  her 
heart  beat  for  no  joy  but  the  rapture  of  his  approval, 
and  that  earth  held  no  pleasure  for  her  fluttering 
bosom  to  be  compared  with  the  bliss  of  pouring  the 
precious  ointment  of  her  love  upon  his  head,  though 
all  unheeded  and  unblest  in  return. 

Of  course  Geoffrey  Hunter  knew  his  position  in 
society  too  well  to  commit  the  enormity  of  falling  in 


«  OH,  LIMED  SOUL  I "  161 

love  with  a  slave — even  if  she  had  been  pampered  and 
petted  and  was  destined  to  be  free  at  no  very  distant 
day.  But  he  did  not  repel  the  love  which  perfumed 
the  passing  moments,  and  so  the  jest  of  gossiping 
tongues  was  entered  in  the  books  of  heavenly  record 
as  a  fact;  and  Geoffrey  Hunter  was  debited  with  the 
safety  of  that  fair  soul,  which  had  lavished  the  treas- 
ures of  its  love  upon  him,  and  of  other  souls  which 
might  yet  bear  the  impress  of  both  minds.  Now 
were  they  doubly  master  and  slave — once  by  the  bill- 
of-sale,  among  his  valuable  papers  and  effects,  and  once 
by  acquisition  in  the  market-overt,  where  Love  is  auc- 
tioneer. 

It  was  a  light  thing  to  the  young  slave-owner,  and 
Toinette  did  not  dream  of  evil  in  her  devotion.  She 
was  too  happy  in  the  privilege  of  loving  even  once  to 
dream  of  sin. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  THINGS    HID    FROM    THE    WISE." 

BETTY  CERTAIN  seemed  to  be  almost  stupefied 
with  amazement  at  the  discovery  of  the  fact  re- 
vealed in  the  preceding  chapter.  For  a  time  she 
seemed  quite  undecided  as  to  the  course  she  should 
adopt  in  view  of  it,  and  for  some  days  she  wandered 
about  the  Lodge  with  a  grotesque  uncertainty  of  move- 
ment, taking  odd  and  uncouth  positions,  sitting  cross- 
wise upon  her  chair,  and  spitting,  here  and  there, 
regardless  of  consequences. 

She  was  not  an  attractive  woman  at  any  time,  and 
now  the  vague  look  of  doubt  that  hung  about  her  every 
limb  and  feature  magnified  her  eccentricities,  until  they 
bordered  on  the  ludicrous.  After  long  reflection  she 
decided  upon  her  course.  How  she  had  come  to  stay 
at  the  Lodge  for  the  past  two  years,  since  Toinette  had 
recovered  from  her  wounds,  no  one,  not  even  herself, 
could  tell.  Geoffrey  had  asked  her  to  continue  there, 
a  month  or  two  after,  when  she  proposed  returning  to 
her  home,  and  from  some  motive  quite  unknown  to 
others,  at  least,  she  had  signified  her  assent,  and  the 
matter  had  never  been  mentioned  afterward.  Whatever 
it  was,  this  poor  white  woman  had  evidently  allowed  it 
to  enter  largely  into  her  own  plans  for  the  future,  which 
seemed  to  have  been  utterly  overturned   by  the  newly 


''THINGS  HID  FROM  THE   WISE."  163 

discovered  intimacy  between  master  and  servant.  Her 
conclusion  once  reached,  however,  there  was  no  more 
uncertainty.  She  stood  erect  and  faced  the  issue  un- 
flinchingly and  promptly.  Her  log-house  on  the  old 
Certain  tract  was  at  once  repaired  under  her  own  super- 
intendence; the  old  shaded  spring  dug  out,  and  the 
entire  premises  made  snug,  cleanly  and  habitable.  This 
done,  she  once  more  sought  an  interview  with  Geoffrey 
Hunter  in  the  library.  Since  he  had  known  her,  Betty 
Certain  had  manifested  some  characteristics,  which,  in 
connection  with  what  he  had  learned  of  her  past  life, 
had  impressed  him  with  a  profound  respect  for  her 
shrewdness,  capacity,  and  trustworthiness.  It  was, 
therefore,  not  without  regret  that  he  heard  of  her 
determination  to  quit  his  roof,  and  he  questioned 
her  closely  as  to  her  motive. 

"  I  v>ill  own  to  you,  Mr.  Hunter,  that  I  had  not 
thought  of  leaving  until  within  a  few  days,  and  it  upset 
me  mightily  for  a  while  to  think  of  doing  it  then,"  she 
said  in  reply. 

*'But  why,"  he  urged,  "think  of  it  at  all.?  You 
have  become  almost  as  inseparable  from  Lovett  Lodge 
as  the  ivy  on  the  chimney  or  the  ghost  which  is  said 
to  cling  to  its  bounds." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Geoffrey,"  she  replied,  "I  came  here  at 
your  bidding,  not  intending  to  stay  at  all,  but  jes' 
to  let  you  know  that  a  pore  white  woman  could  n't 
always  be  bought.  But  when  I  seed  that  poor,  tender 
critter  just  at  the  point  of  death,  an'  seed  that  your 
consarn  for  her  was  more  like  a  father  than  that  ov 
a   master,   I    concluded    to    stay,   for  a  while,   at    least. 


164  ^  ROYAL  gentleman: 

Then  atterwards  I  staid  on,  for  a  reason  which  I 
need  n't  speak  of  now.  Till  by-and-by  I  begun  to 
love  the  gal  Toinie  as  I  should  my  own  darter,  if  I  *d 
had  one,  I  suppose.  An'  then  you  told  me  how  she 
an'  old  Mabel,  her  mother,  was  to  be  sot  free  ez  soon 
ez  ever  Manwell  Hunter  died,  an'  I  'lowed  that  I  'd 
jest  stay  here  with  her  till  that  time,  and  then  pick 
up  an*  go  North  with  you  all,  when  you  tuk'  em  away, 
an'  see  if  I  liked  it  any  better  than  this  country.  I 
wanted  to  be  nigh  Toinette,  anyhow." 

"And  why  not  do  it  yet?"  asked  Geoffrey. 

"  Things  hez  changed  since  then,  Geoffrey  Hunter," 
said  the  woman  quickly ;  "  Toinette  will  never  be  sot 
free,  now." 

"Toinette  not  liberated?     Why?" 

"  Do  n't  ask  me.  You  knows  better  than  I  can  tell 
you,"  said  she,  coolly. 

Geoffrey  Hunter  was  discomfited.  This  poor  white 
woman  annoyed  him.  Yet  he  could  not  tell  why.  He 
got  up  hastily  and  walked  once  or  twice  across  the 
room  nervously.  Betty  Certain  sat  still  and  looking 
at  the  fire  nonchalantly.  Her  demeanor  angered  him. 
What  right  had  she  to  call  him  to  account  for  his 
conduct  ?  Was  it  any  of  her  business  what  his  relations 
were  with  his  own  servant  ?  He  would  let  her  know 
her  place. 

"  So  you  came  to  read  me  a"  lecture,  did  you.  Miss 
Betty  ?  If  you  expect  to  become  my  guardian  it  is 
certainly  time  you  sought  quarters  elsewhere." 

It  was  a  harsh  speech  for  a  man  of  culture  and 
refinement  to  make  to  a  woman,  but  this  woman  was 


''THINGS  HID  FROM  THE   WISEr  165 

no    longer   young,    and   was    only   a    "  poor   white "    at 
best. 

"  It  's  not  the  fust  time  's  trouble  brought  me  here  'n 
crime  druv  me  away,"  said  the  woman  quietly. 

"  You    do  n't    mean    to    accuse    vie   of  crime,    Betty 
Certain?"  said  he,  hotly. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  come  here  to  argy  with  a  lawyer  as 
tu  what  's  crime  an'  what  aint.  Mebbe  you  do  n't 
think  it  's  enny  crime  tu  stain  the  white  soul  ov  that 
young  cretur  in  yon,  an'  send  her  into  hell,  coz  she 
thinks  you  an  angel,  strayed  away  from  home,  an'  be- 
lieves that  wickedness  can  't  live  in  yer  heart.  An' 
maybe  I  was  wrong  in  callin'  it  by  that  name ;  but 
it 's  what  's  bro't  the  bad  name  to  Lovett  Lodge,  an', 
in  my  'pinion,  has  caused  all  the  crime  an'  blood  that  's 
been  done  an'  shed  here.  I  kin  remember,  Geoffrey 
Hunter,  when  ye  were  n't  out  of  frocks  an'  Arthur 
Lovett  lived  here,  with  the  prettiest  yaller  gal  I  've 
ever  seen  'cept  Toinette — an'  somehow  she  'minds 
me  of  her  often.  Ther'  never  wuz  a  better  man 
lived  'twixt  soil  and  sunshine  than  that  same  Arthur 
Lovett,  and  I  've  no  more  idee  thet  he  tho't  ther'  was 
any  more  harm  in  takin'  that  gal  fur  his  mistress,  at 
fust,  than  you  would  in  marryin'  one  ov  the  neighbor's 
gals.  But  it  led  from  this  to  that,  quarrelin',  an'  fight- 
in',  an'  lyin'  to  the  poor  crittur,  till  it  all  ended  in 
blood  and  death — Arthur  Lovett's  blood  an'  death,  too. 
I  've  always  hearn  that  two  as  travels  the  same  road  is 
likely  to  come  to  the  same  eend.  An'  you  're  follerin' 
in  Arthur  Lovett's  tracks,  shore !  But  that 's  your  affair 
and  not  mine." 


166  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

The  allusion  to  Arthur  Lovett  and  reference  to  his 
death  awakened  Geoffrey's  curiosity,  and  he  remem- 
bered the  connection  of  Betty  Certain  with  that  event, 
and  the  mysterious  relation  which  seemed  to  have  ex- 
isted between  that  murder  and  the  one  attempted  after 
he  came  into  possession  of  the  Lodge.  He  determined 
at  this  time  to  gather  such  further  information  as  he 
could  from  her,  to  see  if,  by  chance,  it  might  not  shed 
some  new  light  upon  the  crime  with  which  he  was  him- 
self more  intimately  concerned.  He  would  speak  her 
fair,  therefore,  and  pay  no  attention  to  her  reflections 
upon  his  life.     So  he  said: 

"Well,  Mrs.  Certain,  we  will  not  quarrel,  now  that 
we  are  about  to  part  company.     What  do  I  owe  you.?" 

The  woman  seemed  somewhat  surprised  at  his  tone, 
and,  after  a  moment,  replied: 

"  If  I  've  been  wuth  anything  to  Geoffrey  Hunter  he 
knows  the  vally  ov  what  I  Ve  done,  better  than  I  do. 
I  '11  not  make  any  barter  about  the  matter.  I  did  not 
come  here  for  money,  ez  I  said  afore,  an'  I  've  been 
treated  well  in  this  house,  that  I  hev,  an'  I  shall  hev 
no  complaint  to  make  with  what  ye  're  a  mind  to  pay 
me,  for  kind  o'  holding  things  straight  an'  snug-like. 
Then,  tu,  ther  's  a  feelin'  about  this  house  ther'  ain't 
no  whar  else,  an'  it 's  wuth  suthin',  to  me,  to  live  in  it." 

Geoffrey  was  surprised  at  the  evident  earnestness 
and  feeling  of  this  declaration.  This  low-down  woman 
always  surprised  him.  Collected,  cool,  self-poised  at 
all  times,  she  seemed  to  have  none  of  the  insecutiveness 
which  ought,  in  the  estimation  of  the  favored  portion 
of  mankind,  who  constitute  the  best  society,   to  mark 


"  THINGS  HID  FROM  THE    WISE."  167 

one  of  her  station  in  life.  She  seemed  even  to  have  not 
a  little  of  that  delicacy  and  refinement  of  feeling  which 
Geoffrey  had  supposed  to  have  been  monopolized  in 
the  creation  of  the  self-indulgent  Brahmins  of  his  own 
caste.  So,  having  paid  her  liberally  for  her  services, 
spoken  of  her  future  plans  and  preferences,  as  she 
seemed  about  to  retire  without  herself  introducing  the 
topic  of  peculiar  interest  to  him,  he  finally  said: 

"I  have  always  thought,  Mrs.  Certain,  that  the  re- 
lation you  sustained  to  Arthur  Lovett,  and  the  scrutiny 
you  gave  the  circumstances  attending  his  death,  as  well 
as  your  observation  of  Toinette's  wound,  and  knowledge 
of  its  surroundings,  must  enable  you  to  form  a  better 
and  more  tenable  theory,  as  to  these  strangely  connected 
acts,  than  any  one  else.  I  have  never  given  up  the 
hope  of  detecting  the  perpetrator  of  these  crimes,  for 
I  am  of  opinion  that  the  same  hand  struck  the  blow  in 
both  instances;  nor,  to  tell  the  truth,  to  get  rid  of  the 
apprehension  that  the  same  may  be  attempted  again. 
Would  you  be  willing  to  make  a  confidant  of  me,  so 
far  as  to  tell  me  whatever  you  may  know  of  the  former?" 

Betty  Certain  sat  in  deep  thought  for  a  time,  and 
then  said  slowly  : 

"  I  dunno,  Geoffrey  Hunter,  I  dunno.  It  's  been 
several  year  ago,  an'  I  had  'lowed  never  to  say  any- 
thing to  a  livin'  mortal  about  it.  Your  father  tried 
his  best  tu  make  me  tell  suthin',  and  I  du  believe 
Manuel  Hunter  was  Arthur  Lovett's  friend,  tho'  he 
had  n't  many  this  side  of  Heaven.  I  dunno.  It 's  a 
long  story,  an'  not  over  pleasant,  leastways  to  me,  an' 
it  aint  wuth  nothing  without  yer  hear  the  whole ;  for  I 


168  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

do  n't  know  nothing  positive,  only  guesses  and  sur- 
mises from  some  circumstances  that  nobody  else  knows 
about,  put  along  with  them  y've  been  told  of.  I  can't 
give  yer  an  answer  now,  but  if  I  determine  to  do  it, 
I  '11  come  over  in  the  morning,  a  bit  after  sun-up,  an 
tell  yer  all  I  know.  Ef  I  do  n't  come,  then  ye  may 
know  that  Betty  Certain  's  concluded  not  to  tell  any- 
thing about  this  matter,  but  just  let  time  and  eternity 
settle  it  as  they  may ;  an'  ef  she  makes  up  her  mind 
that  way,  you  may  be  sure  of  one  thing,  she  's  going 
tu  keep  a  close  tongue  while  she  's  got  her  senses,  an' 
she  won't  lose  them,  till  she  's  nigh  about  ready  for  the 
t'other  world  herself." 


i    ■..    ..-.■.  \ 


MR.  GEOFFREY  AND  BETTY  CERTAIN. 


*'  ^Pve  covte^  ye  see^   she  said  sharply  as  she  satdown^  drawing  her  chair 

close  to  the  fire."' — p.  169. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

OUT     OF     HER     SPHERE. 

AT  the  time  she  had  intimated  that  she  would 
come,  if  she  came  at  all,  Betty  Certain  entered 
the  library  again.  She  looked  pale  and  worn.  She  had 
evidently  been  thinking  of  the  past,  and  a  night  of 
sleepless  misery  had  given  her  a  dull  and  haggard  look, 
which  showed  how  deeply  the  memories  she  had  come 
to  relate  were  wrought  into  her  life. 

"I've  come,  ye  see,"  she  said  sharply  as  she  sat 
down,  drawing  her  chair  close  to  the  fire,  for  the  morn- 
ing was  a  chill  autumn  one,  and  gazed  absently  at  the 
flames.  She  paid  no  attention  to  Geoffrey's  respectful 
greeting — in  fact,  did  not  seem  to  hear  it.  After  a  time 
she  looked  up  and  caught  his  eye  curiously  scanning  her 
dress,  for  she  had  laid  off  the  more  elegant  style  which 
she  had  adopted  during  her  residence  at  the  Lodge 
and  gone  back  to  the  coarse  linsey  and  heavy  shoes  of 
the  poor  white,  which  she  had  worn  two  years  ago. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Geoffrey,"  she  said,  somewhat  bitterly, 
"  I  've  gone  back  to  linsey-woolsey,  an'  I  reckon  for  the 
last  time.  Pitv  I  ever  laid  it  off.  All  the  trouble  of 
my  life  has  come  to  me  in  good  clothes.  Ef  I  'd  alius 
staid  whar  natur'  put  me,  an'  never  tried  to  be  anything 
better  than  'a  poor  Poll'  all  my  days,  I  shouldn't 
hev  been  here  to  tell  ye  what  I  know  of  Arthur  Lovr 


170  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

ett's  life  and  death,  whatever  other  crimes  I  might 
hev  hed  knowledge  on.  I  've  sometimes  thought  thet 
Providence  designed  my  troubles  ez  a  punishment 
for   trying    to    git    above    the  sphere    He  'd    placed  me 


in." 


"  But  your  family  is  not  so  low,  Miss  Betty.  I  find 
upon  inquiry  that  it  is  one  of  the  oldest  in  the  State. 
An  ancestor  of  yours  came  over  as  agent  for  the  Earl, 
and  was  afterward  a  man  of  large  estate,  for  the  coun- 
try and  times,  if  I  am  not  mistaken." 

"  Oh,  ther  's  no  mistake  about  that,  but  the  family 
hez  kind  of  run  out  sence  that  time.  Ye  see  Gran 'ther 
Ezra — that's  the  one  yer  mean — didn't  come  as  the 
Earl's  agent  at  fust,  but  was  brought  to  Virginny  when 
a  boy  and  sold  for  his  passage-money.  Ye  see,  he  was 
stole  from  his  people  in  Glasgow,  by  the  captain  as 
brought  him  over,  who  pretended  that  he  had  agreed 
to  pay  for  his  passage.  Of  course  he  couldn't  pay, 
bein'  but  a  lad,  an'  stole  from  home  at  that.  So  he 
was  sold  for  the  money  an'  had  to  work  for  the  man 
that  bought  him  like  a  slave,  till  he  was  one-and-twenty 
or  more.  That 's  the  way  we  come  to  hev  the  name  of 
Certain.  You  see  he  was  articled  to  the  planter  as 
bought  him,  he  bein'  a  mere  boy  of  eight  or  ten  years 
old,  as  a  'certain  boy,'  the  name  bein'  left  out  entirely 
' — whether  by  mistake  or  not,  nobody  ever  knew.  When 
his  master  found  it  out,  he  just  called  him  '  Certain ' 
for  a  nickname.  After  he  got  his  freedom,  he  just  put 
his  given  name  Ezra  to  this  nickname  and  went  as 
Ezra  Certain  always  atterward.  He  found  out  soon 
after  that  he  wuz  of  good  family  in   Scotland,  but  h» 


OUT  OF  HER  SPHERE,  171 

never  would  give  up  the  name  he  hed  made  for  him- 
self, but  left  it  to  his  children,  and,  as  you  sed,  he 
growed  rich  while  he  was  agent  for  the  Earl,  an'  hed 
his  pick  of  the  land  hereabouts. 

"  But  he  never  would  own  a  nigger.  He  sed  he  'd 
been  a  slave  once  hisself,  an'  it  wor  not  right  nor  Chris- 
tian tu  grow  rich  off  another  man's  labor  an'  not  pay 
him  for  it.  An'  he  could  not  see  ez  the  color  of  the 
man's  hide  made  any  difference  with  the  right  or  wrong 
of  the  matter.  So  he  wouldn't  hev  a  slave,  an'  taught 
his  boys  arter  him  to  hev  the  same  notions,  an'  we  all 
kep'  livin'  on  here,  generation  after  generation,  kind  uv 
between  the  hammer  an'  the  anvil,  growin'  poorer  an' 
poorer  while  our  neighbors  growed  richer  and  richer, 
till  we  weren't  of  no  more  account  beside  them  than 
a  black-jack  beside  uv  a  white-oak.  That 's  how  we 
come  to  be  poor;  but  ef  we  hain't  growed  rich  by 
slavery,  we  've  ginerally  missed  the  sins  that  come  from 
it — leastways,  a  part  of  them.  An'  I  don't  know  but 
Gran'ther  Ezra  wuz  right  in  the  long  run.  Time  an' 
eternity  together,  may  be  it 's  better  to  be  poor  then 
hev  more  souls  then  one  to  account  for  in  the  end. 
But  that'  s  neither  here  nor  thar.  I  wuz  alluz  poor. 
The  first  I  remember  we  lived,  mother  an'  I — for  my 
father  died  afore  my  memory — on  what  was  left  of  the 
old  Certain  Tract — a  little,  pore  plantation  about  the  old 
spring,  which  Gran'ther  Ezra  picked  out  as  the  pretti- 
est place  he  'd  seen  to  live  on.  It  is  pretty,  as  you 
know,  an'  a  pretty  price  you  've  offered  for  it  more  nor 
once,  but  it  won't  be  sold  while  Betty  Certain  hez  any 
need  for  a  home 


172  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

"  While  I  was  a  right  young  gal  Arthur  Lovett  came 
from  somewhere  down  in  the  low-country  and  settled 
here.  There  was  no  one  with  him  then — of  his  family 
I  mean — except  the  gal  Bella  ye  've  heard  so  much 
about.  He  put  up  the  log  kitchen  fust,  an'  lived  in 
that  while  this  house  was  building.  He  was  mighty  per- 
ticklar,  an'  hed  it   all  done  under  his  own  eye. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  fust  became  acquainted  with 
them.  Just  accidentally,  I  s'pose.  They  were  our  nigh- 
est  neigbors,  you  know,  an'  I  was  a  young  gal  and  sort 
o'  lonely  staying  at  home  with  only  ma.  So  I  used  to 
come  over  here  an'  chat  with  the  gal  at  first.  By-and- 
by  he  got  to  noticing  me,  an'  seemed  to  be  pleased  at 
the  interest  I  took  in  the  house  he  was  buildin'.  His 
books  came  afore  this  part  was  done,  an'  he  had  some 
light  shelves  made  an'  put  them  up  in  the  parlor.  I  'd 
never  seen  but  a  few  books  afore,  but  I  wuz  desperate 
fond  of  reading.  So  one  day  I  made  bold  to  try  and 
borrow  one.  'What,'  said  he,  'can  you  read,  Miss 
Betty.'''  And  then  he  asked  what  I  had  read,  and 
laughed  till  he  like  to  have  died  when  I  told  him  the 
few  simple  books  which  had  fallen  in  my  way.  I  was 
angry,  and  told  him  I  did  not  want  his  books  at  all 
if  that  was  the  way  he  treated  poor  folks.  I  was  going 
off  in  a  huff,  but  he  called  me  back,  looking  very  sober, 
and  begged  my  pardon  for  what  he  termed  '  an  act  of 
inexcusable  meanness.'  Then  he  requested  me  to  make 
free  use  of  any  books  I  might  find  in  his  library.  I  was 
too  hungry  for  the  wonders  of  the  world  of  printed 
thought  at  that  time  to  hold  my  pique,  and  there  's  few 
books  on  the  shelves  yonder  that  I  've  not  looked  inside 


OUT  OF  HER  SPHERE.  173 

iheir  lids  and  took  in  what  I  might  of  their  messages  of 
good  or  evil." 

Geoffrey  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"  No  wonder  you  're  surprised,  Geoffrey  Hunter. 
You  think  a  '  poor  white '  has  little  right  to  know  more 
than  a  nigger." 

"  I  wish  yoQ  would  not  call  yourself  a  *  poor  white,' 
Miss  Betty,"  said  he. 

"  But  I  am,  and  can't  forget  it  if  I  would.  There 
has  been  twice  that  it  almost  slipped  from  my  mind, 
but  it  never  will  again-  Time  brings  it  out  clearer 
after  each  lapse. 

"  Do  you  mind  your  horse — Polydore,  that  you 
bought  of  Mr.  Duke .?  He  was  branded  when  he  was 
young  on  the  left  shoulder.  It  do  n't  show  when  he 
comes  sleek  and  glossy  to  your  library  door  for  you 
to  mount  in  the  morning.  He  is  just  wrapped  in 
gleaming  silver  then,  and  the  badge  of  ownership  and 
service  is  hidden.  But  when  he  has  been  ridden  a 
day,  and  dust  and  heat  have  soiled  his  coat,  and  he 
comes  home  sweaty  and  drooping,  then  the  brand  stands 
out  plain  'D.'  He  is  your  pet  horse  now,  worthy  of 
the  finest  stall  and  keeping,  but  he  was  once  Mr. 
Duke's  scraggy  foal,  and  slept  in  an  old  field  without 
his  supper.  The  brand  tells  that  tale  on  him  when  he 
sweats.  So  when  trouble  comes  on  me  the  mark  comes 
out  strong,  and  I  show  the  '  poor  white  '  brand.  It 's 
on  my  tongue  and  in  my  heart,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  an'  will 
be  while  I  live  on  earth,  and  after  I  go  to  Heaven 
too,  if  people  who  own  niggers  and  put  on  airs  come 
there." 


174  .-i  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

Unconsciously  she  had  forgotten,  as  she  often  did, 
the  vernacular  of  the  "poor  white,"  and  her  diction 
showed  something  of  the  culture  which  her  words  im- 
plied. She  checked  her  excitement  after  a  moment, 
and  pursued  her  narrative  quietly. 

"  Well,  in  that  way  I  became  a  pretty  constant  vis- 
itor at  the  Lodge.  Arthur  Lovett  was  the  mildest, 
tenderest-hearted  man  that  ever  lived,  of  slender  make, 
with  a  dark,  irregular  face,  great  brown  eyes,  waving 
hair,  which  one  could  hardly  say  whether  't  was  black 
or  brown.  He  was  retiring  and  modest,  almost  timid, 
and  seemed  to  be  half  afraid  of  the  rest  of  the  world. 
He  seldom  went  away  from  home,  but  stayed  here 
with  his  books  and  Belle  and  their  little  ones,  just  as 
contented  as  if  she  had  been  white  and  they  were 
lawfully  married.  The  neighbor  people  made  a  heap 
ov  talk  for  a  time,  but  it  all  mostly  died  out  after  a 
few  months  till  he  had  been  here  some  two  or  three 
years.  Then  it  sort  of  leaked  out  that  the  woman 
*  Belle '  that  he  wor'  living  with  was  not  a  slave,  but 
just  a  free-nigger.  Then  it  was  that  the  people  said 
this  was  not  to  be  borne.  It  was  bad  enough  for  a 
man  to  live  with  his  own  slave,  and  be  the  father  of 
children  that  were  to  be  sold  on  the  block.  But  this 
might  be  tolerated.  The  necessities  of  the  institution 
and  the  country  demanded  a  certain  laxity  in  regard 
to  some  things;  but  the  idea  that  the  moral  and  high- 
minded  people  of  Cold  Spring  county  would  endure 
the  spectacle  of  a  white  man  defying  the  laws  of  God 
and  man  by  living  openly  with  a  free-nigger,  whose  off- 
spring would  also  be  free,  and  the  mother  not  subject 


OUT  OF  HER  SPHERE.  I75 

to  execution  for  the  debts  of  the  father,  was  altogether 
preposterous !  Public  policy,  decency,  and  religion, 
cried  out  against  it  as  an  outrage.  The  church  met 
and  fulminated  against  him.  The  people  met  and 
passed  resolutions.  He  was  formally  notified  that  he 
must  send  the  woman  away,  or  the  just  anger  of  an 
outraged  community  would  fall  upon  him.  They  were 
mistaken  for  once.  They  could  n't  skeer  Arthur  Lovett 
by  no  such  means.  They  miscalculated  when  they 
thought  that  shy,  bashful  man  was  a  coward.  He  sent 
them  back  a  letter  that  stung  like  an  adder,  I  should  say, 
daring  them  to  put  their  cowardly  threats  into  execution. 

"  Not  long  atterwards,  as  I  were  going  on  home  one 
night,  just  arter  dark,  I  heard  voices  afore  me  in  the 
wood  path,  and  stopped  behind  a  tree;  for  I  didn't 
care  to  meet  strangers  thar  in  the  dark; 

"As  they  passed  whar  I  stood  I  made  out  from  ther 
chat  that  they  were  going  to  whip  that  free-nigger  that 
Arthur  Lovett  wuz  keeping,  I  knew,  from  their  voices, 
that  several  in  the  crowd  wuz  the  most  rascally  desper- 
ate characters  in  the  country  round,  and  I  knew  that 
before  they  could  do  this  they  would  hev  to  kill  Arthur 
Lovett.  The  idea  made  me  deadly  faint.  I  didn't  stop 
to  think,  but  just  turned  an'  run  down  by  the  branch, 
an'  along  the  farm-lane,  to  the  Lodge,  and  told  Arthur 
Lovett  before  they  got  here.  He  was  sitting  in  this 
very  room,  and  when  I  told  him  only  smiled,  an'  sed, 
*The  cowards!  I  expected  it,  and  they  will  find  me 
ready.  Thank  you,  Miss  Betty,'  he  added,  pleasantly, 
*  you'd  better  go  home  the  other  way;  they  might  be 
rude  to  you.* 


17G  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

"  So  I  run  out  by  the  back  way  into  the  orchard,  an' 
stopped  by  the  oat-stacks  to  see  the  end  on 't.  I  do  n't 
believe  I  knew  it  till  that  minute,  but  I  found  it  out 
then — when  Bill  Price  rode  up  and  hailed  the  house, 
and  Arthur  Lovett  came  out  on  the  porch  an'  answered 
as  calm  an  quiet  as  ef  he  *d  bin  settin'  in  the  chair  here, 
a'  talkin'  to  me — I  knew  then  that  I  loved  Arthur  Lov- 
ett ;  that  a  hair  of  his  head  was  dearer  to  me  than  all 
other  lives  on  earth.  He  stood  there  on  the  porch  in 
his  slippers  and  wine-colored  dressing-gown,  an'  Bill 
Price  called  to  him  to  come  down  to  the  gate. 

"  *  By  no  means,  gentlemen,'  said  he,  '  'Light  and 
walk  in.' 

"So  they  dismounted — those  who  had  horses — and 
all  came  in.  I  watched  them  as  they  came  through  the 
gate  toward  the  porch.  There  was  seventeen  of  them — 
strong,  reckless  men.  I  thought  ther  would  be  trouble, 
an'  ef  ther  was  I  could  not  leave  Arthur  Lovett.  I 
would  hev  been  right  glad  to  die  to  serve  him  then. 
So,  I  started  round  to  the  wood-yard  for  the  axe,  to  be 
ready  when  the  time  came.  Just  then  the  first  one  was 
about  settin'  his  foot  on  the  porch,  when  he  said : 

"  *  Gentlemen,  I  know  your  errand,  and  you  will 
please  listen  to  me,  before  you  come  further.'  I  had 
crept  over  the  fence  an'  got  the  axe,  an'  crawled  up  by 
the  house  corner  yonder  by  that  time. 

"'I  know  your  errand,'  he  repeated,  'and  desire  to 
aid  you  in  its  performance.  You  have  come  to  inspect 
and  regulate  my  domestic  arrangements,  to  make  them 
conform  to  the  highly  moral  and  respectable  standard 
which  you  so  fully  and  ably  represent.     Your  charac- 


OUT  OF  HER  SPHERE.  177 

ters,  gentlemen,  are  a  sufficient  guarantee  that  your 
efforts  are  entirely  in  the  behalf  of  a  most  laudable  and 
exalted  public  virtue.'  He  spoke  as  quiet  and  calm,  an' 
with  a  cold,  hard  sneer,  which  I  had  never  heard  in  his 
voice  before.  It  froze  me  where  I  stood,  and  I  crept 
close  to  the  house,  still  holding  the  axe,  and  wondering 
what  would  come  next. 

"'Mr.  Bill  Price,'  said  he,  'you  seem  to  be  leader 
and  spokesman  for  this  crowd  of  high-toned  gentlemen. 
Will  you  please  to  station  a  certain  number,  so  as  to 
prevent  egress  from  the  house,  and  allow  me  to  conduct 
you,  and  such  as  you  may  select,  through  the  same.?* 

"  So  three  or  four  men  went  on  each  side  to  guard 
the  house,  and  the  others  went  inside  with  Lovett. 

"  I  could  hear  him  as  they  went  from  room  to  room, 
taunting  and  twitting  them  in  a  manner  most  wonder- 
ful to  me,  who  knew  him  to  be  so  mild  and  gentle. 

"  He  made  them  get  down  on  their  knees  and  look 
under  the  beds,  peep  into  the  wardrobes,  move  out  the 
sofas,  and  go  from  top  to  bottom  over  the  house. 

"  Then  he  came  back  with  them  all  upon  the  porch 
an'  kep'  on  talkin* : 

"'Gentlemen,'  said  he,  *  accept  my  thanks!  It  is 
not  everyone  who  can  have  his  household  affairs  reg- 
ulated by  a  committee  of  high-toned  gentlemen.  Won't 
you  look  under  the  carpets,  gentlemen }  Did  you  find 
everything  right,  gentlemen.?  Did  you  look  in  all  my 
drawers  and  chests  ?  Of  course  no  one  would  suspect 
you  if  anything  should  be  lost.  Very  happy  to  have 
met  you,  gentlemen.  Will  you  examine  the  kitchen 
now  V 


178  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

"'Yes,  by  God!'  says  Bill  Price,  Sve  will.  You 
ca  n't  bluff  us  off  in  that  way.  We  know  the  gal  's  here 
an'  we're  bound  to  hev  her.     Come  on,  men!' 

"  An'  they  started  with  half-a-dozen  candles  right 
round  by  the  corner  where  I  was,  for  the  kitchen — Ar- 
thur Lovett  with  them. 

"  I  knew  they  'd  see  me  if  I  staid,  an'  then  I  knew 
what  ud  be  said  about  it ;  so  I  broke  and  run,  still 
holdin'  on  to  the  axe.  The  fellow  who  was  set  to  guard 
that  corner  called  out  at  once : 

" '  Here  she  is,  here  she  is,'  as  he  saw  me  start. 
Then  I  was  close  on  him  and  hit  him  with  the  axe — 
the  eye,  not  the  edge,  or  it  would  have  killed  him  on 
the  spot — but  he  kinder  started  back  and  his  cheek- 
bone got  the  heft  uv  the  blow. 

"  I  jumped  the  fence,  an'  they  all  tuck  after  me 
like  hounds  follerin'  of  a  fox.  When  I  came  to  cross 
the  branch  in  the  meadow  I  slipped  an'  fell,  an'  afore 
I  could  get  up  they  hed  me  an'  was  pullin'  me  back 
towards  the  house  afore  I  could  offer  any  resistance. 

*'  When  we  got  nigh  the  house  Bill  Price  called  out : 

" '  We  've  caught  your  bird,  after  all,  Mr.  Lovett. 
Here,  fellows,  bring  a  light  and  let  's  have  a  squint  of 
her  face.  She  "s  a  lively  wench,  anyhow,  and  fights 
like  the  devil.  We  '11  see  if  a  hundred  or  so,  well  laid 
on,  wont  tame  her  a  bit.' 

" '  She  's  nigh  killed  Mike  Garner  with  the  axe,'  said 
another,  'and  ought  to  be  hung  for  it.* 

"'Whom  have  you  there.?'  said  Arthur,  coming  up 
just  as  lights  were  brought  by  some  others.  He  was 
very  pale   and   spoke  anxiously — I  thought  it  was  for 


OUT  OF  HER  SPHERE,  I79 

me,  and  fear  and  shame  were  forgotten  In  an  Instant. 
My  heart  beat  wildly  with  unexpected  joy,  and  my  face, 
as  I  looked  up,  must  have  reflected  the  pleasure  I  felt. 

"  He  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  left  hand  and  peered 
at  me  as  the  lights  came  up. 

" '  My  God  !'  said  he,  '  is  it  you.  Miss  Betty  V  Then 
they  all  stared  into  my  face,  and  Bill  Price  said : 

"'Derned  if  it  aint   Bet  Certain,  boys.     Why,  gal, 
ye  're  gettin'  Into  business  young,  aint  ye  ?' 

"  At  that  they  all  laughed,  and  one  of  them  said : 

"  '  Blast  her  !  let  's  switch  her  anyhow.  She  's  nigh 
killed  poor  Mike,  and  oughtn't  to  be  playin'  agin  a 
free-nigger  nohow.' 

"Then  Bill  Price  spoke  up  an'  sez,  'No,  gentlemen; 
no.  Ef  a  gentlemen  chooses  to  amuse  himself  as  a  gen- 
tlemen, we  've  no  right  to  interfere.  We  've  come  to 
break  up  Mr.  Lovett's  disgraceful  connection  with  a 
free-nigger,  but  if  he  's  cast  her  off  and  took  up  with 
Betty  Certain  we  've  nothing  to  say,  except  to  congrat- 
ulate him  on  the  Improvement  of  his  taste,  beg  his 
pardon  for  our  untimely  visit  and  wish  him  good  even- 
ing ; '  and  with  that  he  let  me  go. 

"I  had  not  thought  of  this  view  of  my  situation 
till  he  spoke.  Then  I  put  my  hands  over  my  face 
an'  sunk  down  with  a  groan.  Arthur  Lovett  came 
close  beside  me  and  said: 

"  *  Gentlemen,  I  pledge  you  my  word  that  I  was  un- 
aware of  the  presence  of  this  young  lady  on  my  plan- 
tation. As  you  know,  she  Is  the  daughter  of  my 
nearest  neighbor — of  a  family  poor  but  respectable; 
and  I  believe   her   to   be   as   pure   as   any  lady  In  the 


180  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

land.  I  cannot  explain  her  presence  here  to-night,  but 
am  confident  it  was  with  a  good  motive.  You  are 
aware  she  has  no  father  or  brother,  and  you  must  now 
apologize  for  your  aspersions  of  her  character,  or  an- 
swer  to  me  personally  for  the  same.' 

" '  Mr,  Lovett  knows  where  to  find  ils,'  said  Bill 
Price,  'an'  any  of  us  will  be  happy  to  accommodate 
him.     Good  night.' 

"'You  will  hear  from  me  in  the  morning,  sir,'  said 
Arthur. 

*'  Then  they  mounted   their  horses  and  rode  away. 

"Arthur  Lovett  raised  me  gently  from  the  ground 
and  led  me  into  the  house." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

love's  logic. 

*^  T  WUS  sorter  staggered  at  the  turn  things  had  taken, 
X  and  when  we  got  into  the  sitting-room  only  had 
a  sort  of  confused  notion  of  all  that  had  been  going 
on.  Arthur  gave  me  a  glass  of  wine,  and  waited  till  I 
had  recovered  myself  before  he  spoke. 

"'You're  better  now,  Miss  Betty,'  said  he;  *you 
have  been  badly  frightened,' 

*'  I  could  not  say  '  yes '  and  would  not  say  *  no. 

"  It  was  not  the  fright  that  upset  me,  but  the  idea 
that  every  one  would  soon  be  speaking  of  me  as  Arthur 
Lovett's  mistress.  I  suppose  something  like  this 
showed  in  my  face,  for  he  came  up  an'  put  his  hand 
on  my  head  tenderly  ez  if  I  had  been  a  child,  and 
says : 

" '  Miss  Betty,  how  did  you  come  to  be  here  ?  You 
had  plenty  of  time  to  have  escaped  before  these  scoun- 
drels arrived.' 

"  I  thought  there  was  a  little  touch  of  reproach  in 
his  voice,  an'  it  hurt  me.  I  loved  him  too  well  an' 
hed  suffered  too  much  for  him  that  night  to  endure 
reproof.  The  tears  came  into  my  eyes  and  choked 
my  words  as  I  replied  : 

" '  Oh,  Mr.  Lovett,  I  was  afeard  they  might  do  you 
some  harm,  an' — an' — an' — ' 


182  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 


<(  i 


And  so  you  came  back  with  that  axe  to  aid  in  my 
defense,  did  you  ?' 

''  I  hung  my  head  an'  my  face  burned,  but  in  my 
heart  I  was  glad  that  he  would  know  of  my  love.  He 
might  not  return  it.  I  had  no  idea  that  he  would ;  but 
it  was  an  honest,  brave  love,  and  I  felt  that  he  could 
not  despise  it. 

"'Did  you  think,'  he  continued,  'that  it  would  en- 
danger your  reputation  and  might  imperil  your  life.''' 

"  I  looked  him  full  in  the  face  and  answered,  '  I 
didn't  care,  sir.     I  was  bound  you  shouldn't  be  hurt.' 

"  He  started,  took  his  hand  quickly  from  my  head, 
and  turned  away  with  a  disturbed,  anxious  look  upon 
his  face  and  walked  the  floor  for  some  time  in  deep 
thought.  I  watched  him  silently.  How  noble  he 
seemed  as  he  walked  back  and  forth  in  utter  forget- 
fulness  of  my  presence.  His  lips  were  close  shut, 
his  features  flushed,  and  his  form  seemed  instinct  with 
busy  thoughts.  I  knew  he  was  thinking  of  me,  though 
he  had  forgotten  my  presence.  I  was  glad  that  he 
knew  of  my  love.  He,  at  least,  would  respect  me,  and 
I  had  told  him  the  simple  truth.  As  to  others,  his 
regard  hid  all  the  obloquy  which  they  might  cast  upon 
me.     He  was  iny  world. 

"  I  had  no  idea  that  he  would  ever  return  my  love. 
The  thought  of  any  tenderer  relation  with  him  than  I 
had  before  enjoyed  had  never  once  entered  my  mind. 
To  feel  that  he  was  my  friend,  that  I  might  look 
upon  him  and  know  that  he  would  condescend  to  re- 
member me  with  kindness,  that  he  would  sometimes 
think  pleasantly  and  tenderly  of  the  risks  I  had  under- 


LOVES  LOGIC.  183 

taken  for  him  that  night,  was  more  than  enough  for 
my  new-found  love.  I  could  not  help  blushing,  but 
I  was  not  ashamed.  I  had  all  that  I  desired,  and  so  I 
sat  and  waited  for  his  moody  fit  to  pass,  that  I  might 
hear  what   he  would  say. 

"  At  length  he  threw  himself  upon  the  sofa  and 
buried  his  face  in  the  pillows.  I  wished  I  might  go 
and  smooth  his  hair,  but  I  dared  not.  After  a  time 
he  got  up  and  came  toward  me.  His  face  was  pale 
and  his  eyes  bloodshot.  For  the  first  time  he  seemed 
to  have  become  aware  of  my  presence. 

'- '  Miss  Betty,'  said  he,  '  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  had 
quite  forgotten  that  you  were  here.  I  am  in  trouble. 
I  cannot  thank  you  now  for  your  kindness  to-night.  I 
shall  not  forget  it.  Let  us  say  no  more  about  it  now. 
Permit  me  to   accompany  you  to  your  home.' 

"  He  gave  me  his  arm,  and  we  went  out  into  the 
moonlight  and  along  the  wood-path  to  our  house.  He 
spoke  of  everything  but  the  occurrences  of  that  night. 
I  do  n't  know  what  was  said,  whether  we  made  haste  or 
loitered.  I  only  know  that  he  left  me  at  our  door, 
lifting  his  hat  with  profound    courtesy  as  he  said : 

" '  Good-night,  Miss  Betty.  With  your  leave,  I  shall 
call  in  a  short  time  to  express  my  gratitude  for  the 
heroism  you  have   displayed   to-night.' 

"  Then  he  was  gone.  I  saw  his  form  disappear  along 
the  path  we  had  just  come,  and  then  I  sat  down  upon 
the  old  door-stone  and  wondered  why  the  world  seemed 
so  different  to  me  from  the  one  the  sun  had  set  upon. 

"  The  moonlight  was  certainly  brighter  and  softer 
than  I  had  ever  known  before.      I  was,  of  course,  the 


184  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

same  Betty  Certain,  but  somehow  I  did  not  feel  the 
same.  All  was  so  bright  and  yet  so  strange.  I  sat  and 
thought  a  long  time,  but  yet  the  mystery  remained.  I 
went  in  at  last  and  sought  to  sleep,  with  a  strange  med- 
ley of  pleasant  and  unpleasant  things  in  my  mind. 

"I  saw  nothing  more  of  Arthur  Lovett  for  several 
days.  Meantime  there  had  come  a  report  that  he  and 
Bill  Price  had  fought  a  duel  at  the  Neck;  that  Price 
had  been  seriously  and  Lovett  slightly  wounded.  No 
one  seemed  to  know  anything  of  the  cause  of  the  duel 
so  far  as  I  could  learn.  /  knew  that  Arthur  Lovett 
had  risked  his  life  against  a  practiced  duelist  to  re- 
deem my  reputation. 

"  If  I  had  loved  him  before,  I  worshiped  him  then. 
I  would  have  done  his  bidding  gladly  if  it  had  periled 
my  soul.  I  longed  to  go  to  him,  to  kiss  the  wound  he 
had  received  for  my  sake ;  but  I  knew  that  if  he  wanted 
me  he  would  send  for  me. 

"  Besides  that,  had  he  not  shed  his  blood  to  save 
my  character.?  And  should  I  peril  anything  so  pre- 
cious lightly.'*  I  did  not  go  to  the  Lodge,  but  waited 
day  after  day  for  Arthur  Lovett  to  come  to  me. 

"  I  was  sure  he  would  come — he  had  promised  that 
he  would — to  thank  me.  He  was  my  debtor  then  ; 
now  I  was  his,  I  thought.  He  would  come,  and  I 
would  thank  him.  Then  he  would  go  away,  the  rich, 
gifted,  cultured  Arthur  Lovett,  along  the  path  which 
was  marked  out  for  him,  and  I — I  would  go  my  way. 
Once  more  I  was  to  be  allowed  to  bow  at  the  shrine 
of  my  idolatry.  Then  our  ways  would  separate  forever. 
The  thought  annoyed  me ;  I  murmured  at  my  poverty 


LOVE'S  LOGIC.  185 

and  lowliness ;   yet  I  did  not  dream  that  it  could  be 
otherwise. 

"  One  day  my  mother  was  gone  to  a  neighbor's, 
and  I  sat  dreaming  in  the  soft  sunlight  of  a  mild 
October  afternoon,  when  there  came  a  rap  at  the  door 
and  a  shadow  fell  across  the  lintel. 

"  I  knew  who  was  there,  and  my  heart  beat  so  wildly 
that  I  could  scarcely  rise  and  bid  him  come  in  and 
be  seated.  Never  did  our  neat  old  cabin  seem  so  poor 
and  uncouth  before.  I  was  ashamed  of  the  rude  door, 
hung  on  its  wooden  hinges ;  of  the  little  room,  and 
the  snowy  bed  with  its  high  posts ;  of  the  floor,  full 
of  great  cracks ;  of  the  smoked  and  spotted  ceiling, 
brown  with  age  ;  of  the  gourd,  beside  the  bucket  at  the 
door ;  of  the  low,  cross-legged  table,  which  we  kept 
clean  and  white  enough  for  the  Saviour  and  his  Apos- 
tles to  have  eaten  the  Last  Supper  from;  I  was  even 
ashamed  of  the  cosy  splint-bottomed  chair,  in  which  I 
asked  him  to  be  seated. 

*'  It  may  seem  strange  that  I  had  never  observed 
how  meanly  we  lived  at  my  mother's  before ;  but,  you 
know,  one  does  not  see  the  shadows  till  the  sun  shines. 

"  Arthur  Lovett  was  pale  and  careworn.  His  left 
arm  was  in  a  sling.  I  think  he  noticed  my  chagrin. 
I  know  my  cheeks  burned.  He  seemed  to  look  at  me 
more  keenly  than  he  had  ever  done  before.  I  was  not 
altogether  a  fright  in  those  days,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  if  niy 
looking-glass  told  the  truth. 

"  At  length,  after  the  ordinary  chat  of  the  day,  he 

Said  he  wanted  to  talk  with  me,  and  asked  if  I  would 

Walk   with    him.     I    think   he    saw    my    embarrassment- 
is 


186  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

arising  from  our  mean  surroundings,  divined  its  cause, 
and  desired  to  remove  it. 

"  Down  the  branch,  below  the  spring  a  hundred 
yards,  was  a  cluster  of  old  field-pines,  with  one  or 
two  of  original  growth,  a  patriarchal  oak,  a  few  cedars, 
and  a  fringe  of  second-growth  poplars  and  gums. 
This  had  been  my  playground  in  childhood;  and  my 
place  of  refuge  from  the  world  ever  since.  Many  an 
hour  I  had  hidden  away  beneath  its  shadows  and  peo- 
pled its  stillness  with  the  creations  of  Shakespeare,  and 
Scott,  and  other  authors  whom  Arthur  Lovett's  kind- 
ness had  put  into  my  hands. 

"  I  had  arranged  in  it  different  resorts  for  various 
times  of  day  and  changing  moods.  I  knew  now  where 
the  evening  sun  was  creeping  in  and  lighting  up  a 
fairy  room,  whose  door-way  was  a  cedar  bough,  and 
whose  walls  were  of  impenetrable  evergreen,  flecked 
with  the  yellow  leaves  of  a  young  poplar — which  had 
thrust  its  head  aspiringly  between  a  pine  and  cedar 
but  to  have  its  ambition  cruelly  checked — and  half-can- 
opied by  a  dog-wood,  which  was  just  in  the  glory  of 
its  gold  and  crimson  autumn  robe.  The  ground  was 
carpeted  with  leaves  and  strewn  with  cones. 

"  A  great  rock,  with  a  cedar  at  one  end  and  an 
ancient  pine  at  the  other,  with  a  wide  shelf  near  its 
base,  and  rising  at  the  back  ten  or  twelve  feet  above, 
with  a  crest  covered  with  the  mingled  hues  of  a  purple- 
leaved  creeper,  which  clambered  over  it,  and  a  dark 
green  ivy,  a  spray  of  which  I  had  torn  from  the  library 
chimney  here  and  planted  beside  my  rock,  constituted 
the  sofa,  the  place  of  honor,  in  my  dream-palace. 


LOVBS  LOGIC.  187 

"  Upon  this  seat,  through  the  dogwood  branches  fell 
the  autumn  sunlight  at  that  hour. 

"You  smile,  Mr,  Geoffrey,  and  no  wonder.  What 
right  had  Betty  Certain  to  such  a  bower  1  But  she 
had  it,  and  though  I  haven't  seen  it  for  years,  I  guar- 
antee that  you  would  say  I  hadn't  half  done  it  jus- 
tice— even  now. 

"  So  when  Arthur  Lovett  asked  me  to  walk  with  him, 
it  struck  me  all  at  once  that  I  would  take  him  there 
and  I  said,  very  quickly: 

" '  Yes,  Mr.  Lovett,  our  castle  is  a  rude  one ;  but 
I  've  got  a  bower  that  is  worthy  of  a  queen.  Shall  we 
go  there  V 

"  He  smiled,  a  little  amused  or  surprised,  and  said : 

"*If  you  please,  I  should  like  to  see  your  ideal  of  a 
royal  residence.  I  have  seen  many  a  queen's  bower 
in  my  travels  abroad,  and  always  felt  a  sort  of  name- 
less pity  for  the  poor  birds  within  those  gilded  cages.' 

''  Then  we  went  down  by  the  spring  and  I  showed 
him  the  path  around  the  old  oak  and  under  the  alder 
bushes,  down  the  little  branch,  till  we  came  opposite 
the  bower,  then  up  among  the  boulders  and  under  the 
pines,  treading  the  cones  in  the  shadows,  and  breathing 
the  rich  balsam  odors,  till  we  came  out  into  the  sun- 
shine, before  the  very  door. 

"Then  I  stopped  and  asked  him  in  what  direction 
the  house  was  from  us,  and  laughed  till  the  tears  came 
when  he  pointed  the  wrong  way. 

"  It  was  n't  so  particularly  funny,  and  I  never  knew 
why  I  laughed  or  cried  then,  only  I  didn't  want  to 
cry,  and  I  could  n't  help  laughing. 


188  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

"  Then  I  lifted  up  the  cedar  bough  that  formed  my 
door-way,  and  bade  him  stoop  low  and  enter. 

"  He  did  so,  and  I  followed  him.  He  looked  sharply 
round  and  then,  turning  to  me,  said : 

" '  You  spoke  truly.  It  is  worthy  of  a  queen.  Let 
me  lead  the  sovereign  to  her  throne.'  He  turned  and 
held  out  his  hand. 

"  I  sat  down  upon  a  rock,  beside  the  door,  put  my 
hands  to  my  face,  and  wept. 

"  He  seemed  distressed,  and  asked  the  cause  of  my 
grief. 

"I  told  him  I  had  brought  him  there  to  show  him 
my  only  treasure,  of  which  no  one  else  knew,  and 
then  he  mocked  me. 

"'You  mistake.  Miss  Betty,'  said  he,  quickly.  'Your 
bower  is  certainly  a  gem,  and  I  but  intended  to  com- 
pliment you,  through  it.' 

"Then  he  took  my  hand  and  led  me  to  the  seat 
by  the  rock.  As  soon  as  we  had  sat  down  he  grew 
silent  and  moody  again.  I  picked  up  the  painted  leaves 
which  lay  about,  and  made  bouquets  and  crowns,  and 
watched  him  in  silence.  Suddenly  he  looked  at  me, 
with  a  peculiar  significance,  and  said  ; 

"  Miss  Betty,  were  you  not  afraid  to  bring  me 
hither.?' 

"  I  comprehended  him  at  once,  and  said,  slowly  and 
clearly : 

"'No.' 

"'This  is  the  second  time  you  have  placed  your 
honor  in  my  keeping,'  said  he. 

" '  He  that  guards  the  shadow  so  well  will  never  tar- 


I 


I 


ARISTOCRAT    AND    POOR    POLL. 

'■'•At  length  he  stopped  before  me^  and  flashed  out :  '  Betty  Certain,  ii'IH  you  be  my 
iv'/e  f     .     ,     .     I  was  too  astonished  to  speakr — p.  189/ 


LOVES  LOGIC.  189 

nish  the  substance,'  I  replied,  glancing  at  his  wounded 
arm. 

"  He  flushed,  and  was  silent.  Then  he  got  up  and 
walked  back  and  forth,  as  he  had  done  that  other  night 
in  the  parlor.  At  length  he  stopped  before  me,  and 
flashed   out : 

"'Betty  Certain,  will  you  be  my  wife.'*' 

"  My  heart  stood  still.  I  must  have  shaken  my  head, 
for  I  was  too  astonished  to  speak. 

"'Hush,  hush!'  he  said,  'don't  say  no;  don't  say 
anything  until  you  have  heard  me.' 

"  So  I  sat  still.  I  could  not  have  spoken  if  I  had 
tried.  He  walked  about  a  moment  to  master  or  conceal 
his  agitation,  and  then  came  back  and  sat  down  near 
me.     After  a  moment,  he  spoke." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

EXCEPTIO  PROBAT  REGULAM. 

^'  <  T  DO  not  ask  you  to  be  my  wife,  Miss  Betty,' 
X  said  he,  'for  any  of  the  reasons  ordinarily  lead- 
ing a  man  to  make  such  a  request  of  a  woman.  I 
have  long  since  passed  that  age  when  passion  alone 
controls  our  action  in  such  matters.  Even  if  I  were 
younger,  my  experience  of  life  has  been  such  that  I 
would  long  since  have  disowned  such  motive.  Neither 
is  the  course  which  I  have  adopted  a  hasty  or  unpre- 
meditated one.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  one  which  has 
only  been  determined  upon  after  the  most  mature  and 
earnest  consideration.  But  before  you  can  fully  ap- 
preciate my  situation,  I  must  detail  to  you  the  cir- 
cumstances which  have  led  to  it. 

"  '  As  you  are  aware,  I  am  the  only  son  of  one  of 
the  wealthiest  planters  in  the  eastern  portion  of  the 
State.  From  my  boyhood  nothing  has  been  denied 
me  that  I  desired.  I  was  the  autocrat  of  Heptwilde 
(my  father's  plantation)  from  my  birth.  Pampered  and 
petted  in  everything,  I  passed  my  boyhood  in  the 
usual  freedom  of  plantation  life.  I  have  promised  that 
you  shall  have  a  full  recital  of  my  life,  and  I  shall 
extenuate  nothing.  I  passed  my  collegiate  course  with 
steadiness  and  credit,  and  did  not  become  involved  in 
anything  serious  or  discreditable  until  the  summer  of 
my  twenty-third  year. 


EXCEP  TIO  PROBA  T  REG  ULA  M.  191 

" '  At  that  time,  my  two  sisters  returned  home  from 
boarding-school,  bringing  with  them  a  young  girl  whom 
my  father  had  purchased  at  the  special  request  of  the 
elder,  some  three  years  before,  and  who  had  since  then 
been  her  maid.  She  had  been  much  petted  by  my  sis- 
ter and  her  companions  on  account  of  her  exceeding 
beauty  and  intelligence,  and  had  been  permitted  (per- 
haps it  was  necessary  to  stimulate  my  sister's  indo- 
lence) to  pursue  the  same  studies  as  her  young  mis- 
tress, which  she  had  done  to  far  better  purpose.  Her 
mind  seemed  to  have  an  instinctive  aptitude  for  ac- 
quiring knowledge.  The  sciences  of  which  my  sisters 
had  but  a  cursory  knowledge,  she  had  in  a  measure 
mastered,  and  the  languages  their  tongues  refused  to 
pronounce  were  as  music  upon  hers. 

"  *  From  the  moment  I  saw  Belle,  1  loved  her,  not 
with  the  degrading  passion  of  a  favorite,  but  with  a 
deep,  holy  tenderness,  that  would  lead  me  to  give  my 
life  for  her  happiness  without  hesitation.  From  that 
moment,  I  have  never  ceased  to  love  her.  Every  pos- 
sible means  was  taken  by  my  family  to  break  off  the 
attachment,  but  it  has  only  grown  stronger  with  every 
obstacle  which  has  been  placed  in  its  way.  For  a  time 
I  tried  to  break  away  from  the  spell  of  her  beauty, 
and  the  charm  of  her  love,  for  I  knew  that  our  at- 
tachment, contrary,  as  it  was,  to  the  laws,  both  of 
Church  and  State,  could  only  bring  sorrow  and  trouble  ; 
but  I  Was  too  weak  to  adhere  to  my  good  resolutions. 

" '  Months  grew  into  years,  and  I  was  still  the  de- 
voted slave  of  my  father's  servant.  Meantime  my 
father   had    given    me   a  plantation   near   his    own,  and 


192  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

we  lived  there  for  some  time  in  comparative  quiet* 
Then  we  were  indicted,  and  the  whole  country  was 
in  a  ferment  over  our  relation.  I  wonder  now  that 
I  should  have  been  so  mad.     Yet  I  could  not  help  it. 

"  '  My  father  agreed  to  compromise  the  prosecution 
if  I  would  give  up  the  girl.  This  I  agreed  to  do  on 
condition  that  he  would  emancipate  her  and  her  child. 
He  agreed  to  do  so,  and  I  went  to  Europe  and  traveled 
for  two  years. 

" '  On  my  return  I  found  that  Belle  had  been  taken 
to  New  York  and  emancipated  according  to  the  laws 
of  that   State.     She  had   afterward   returned   and   lived 

in  the  town  of  N ,  though  this  fact  was  unknown 

to  my  father.  He  was  so  delighted  at  what  he  con- 
sidered a  final  rupture  of  my  disgraceful  connection, 
that  he  at  once  gave  me  a  deed  of  gift  of  quite  a  num- 
ber of  slaves,  and  added  a  codicil  to  his  will  devising 
certain  property  to  Bella  for  her  own  use  and  occu- 
pancy. It  seems  he  had  some  years  before  provided  for 
her  emancipation  by  will. 

" '  I  was  too  weak  to  avoid  the  connection  which 
Bella  was  nothing  loath  to  resume,  and  so  sold  my  plan- 
tation and,  taking  Bella  and  her  child,  came  and  bought 
the  plantation  here  and  built  the  Lodge — as  you  know. 

"  '  My  family  at  last  abandoned  me  to  my  infatuation,, 
but  with  sorrow  and  shame.  They  had  used  every 
means  to  reclaim  me,  but  in  vain.  I  was  an  only  son,, 
and  used  the  power  which  this  fact  gave  me  without 
scruple  to  secure  compliance  in  my  shameful  course.. 

" '  Bella  has  lived  with  me  ever  since.  Instead  of 
one   child   we   have   now   three.      My   father  has  lately 


EXCEPTIO  P  ROB  AT  REGULAM.  I93 

died  insolvent,  and  the  deeds  of  gift  which  he  made  to 
me  are  void  against  his  previous  creditors.  This  will 
take  away  a  large  portion  of  my  estate.  Already  they 
have  demanded  Belle  and  her  children.  I  shall  resist 
their  claim  to  the  last  moment,  but  fear  they  will  ulti- 
mately succeed.  If  so,  my  cup  of  misery  will  be  more 
than  full.  I  cannot  live  to  see  my  children  slaves  or 
the  woman  I  have  so  fondly  loved  under  the  lash  of 
the  overseer. 

" '  I  do  not  know  what  may  be  the  result  of  the  case 
now  pending,  but  my  mind  is  made  up  to  this :  Belle 
must  be  emancipated,  and  she  and  our  children  freed. 
They  must  be  sent  to  some  Northern  State  and  com- 
fortably settled.  My  relations  with  them  must  cease 
entirely,  for  I  have  not  only  them  to  provide  for  but 
my  own  impoverished  sisters.  My  counsel  thinks  the 
creditors  will  undoubtedly  hold  all  the  slaves  I  received 
from  my  father  except  Belle  and  her  children.  This 
will  leave  barely  enough  upon  the  plantation  to  support 
my  sisters.  Thus  impoverished,  I  can  do  but  little  to 
free  Belle  and  the  children,  or  provide  for  them,  and 
at  all  events  must  draw  upon  the  confidence  of  friends 
to  obtain  money  to  liberate  them  should  they  be  held 
by  the  executor.' 

"Arthur  Lovett  ceased  speaking,  and  I  sat  looking 
at  him  in  silent  wonder. 

"'You  have  followed  me.  Miss  Betty.?'  he  said  at 
length. 

"  I  nodded  in  the  affirmative,  and  he  went  on. 

" '  I  presume  you  see  in  all  this  no  reason  why  I 
should  ask  you  to  be  my  wife,  or  that  you  should  con- 


194  A  ROYAL  GEKfTLEMAN. 

sent  to  do  so,  but  on  the  contrary,  abundant  reason 
why  you  should  not.  I  told  you  at  first  that  no  com- 
mon motive  actuated  me.  Several  years  ago  I  had  the 
design  of  going  abroad,  taking  Belle  with  me  and  mar- 
rying there.  I  examined  the  matter  while  in  Europe, 
and  concluded  that  the  legality  of  such  a  marriage  was 
at  least  doubtful.  At  any  rate,  I  did  not  do  it.  Per- 
haps for  no  better  reason  than  mere  inertness  of  pur- 
pose. But  at  that  time  I  took  a  policy  of  insurance 
upon  my  life  for  a  large  sum,  which  is  payable  in  the 
first  instance  to  my  widow,  should  I  die  leaving  one, 
and  if  not,  to  my  heirs-at-law,  who  in  that  case  would 
be  my  two  sisters. 

"  *  You  see  at  once  that  I  had  intended  this  for  Belle 
— poor  girl — and  her  children.  Should  she  be  sold  for 
the  benefit  of  my  father's  creditors  I  may  be  unable  to  buy 
her  and  she  may  yet  be  in  dire  need  of  this  provision. 

" '  Now,  Betty  Certain,  you  see  why  I  have  asked 
you  to  be  my  wife.  I  have  studied  you  closely,  and 
feel  that  I  can  rely  upon  you.  Your  word,  once  pledged, 
will  be  sacred.  I  cannot  offer  you  love  or  purity  of 
life  heretofore,  but  I  can  give  you  the  highest  respect, 
and  you  need  have  no  fear  of  future  infidelity.  I  shall 
think  no  more  of  poor  Belle,  except  to  study  how  I 
may  remedy  the  wrongs  which  have  been  imposed  upon 
her.  It  is  almost  a  necessity  that  I  should  marry,  if  I 
would  accomplish  this,  which  I  believe  to  be  a  holy 
purpose.  If  I  die  unmarried,  this  money  will  go  to  my 
sisters,  who  charge  Belle  with  what  they  are  pleased  to 
term  my  ruin,  and  they  would  gladly  see  her  and  her 
children  in  bondage. 


EXCEPTIO  PROBAT  REGULAM.  195 


(( ( 


You  love  me,  Miss  Betty.  I  respect  and  revere 
you.     Will  you  aid  me  in  my  distress.''' 

"I  sat  silent.  My  idol  was  being  rapidly  trans- 
formed to  my  eyes.  Yet  why.''  I  had  known  all  the 
time  of  his  unholy  love.  Was  he  less  worthy  now 
that  he  sought  to  shake  it  off,  than  when  he  gloried 
in  his  shame .?     It  could  not  be.     Yet  I  was  silent. 

"  '  There  is  another  view  to  be  taken  of  this  mat- 
ter which  I  would  urge  were  it  not  ungenerous  to  do 
so,'  he  said  again. 

"'What  is  that.?'  I  asked. 

"'Could  I  not  imagine.'''  he  asked.  '  How  would 
the  world  associate  our  names  after  what  had  been 
witnessed  by  so  many.''  He  could  and  would  defend 
my  honor,  so  far  as  it  lay  in  his  power,  whatever  might 
be  my  answer ;  but  as  his  betrothed  wife  no  tongue 
would  dare  to  wag  against  me.  That  relation  would 
be  an  unimpeachable  guarantee  of  purity.' 

"  It  struck  me  oddly  then ;  but  it  was  true,  en- 
tirely true.  His  smutched  garments  would  be  a  shield 
to  my  unsoiled  virtue.  I  knew  it,  and  I  was  grateful 
to  him  for  what  he  had  already  done  for  me.  Be- 
sides that,  I  thought  I  could  help  him,  and — God, 
forgive  me — perhaps  I  was  tired  of  being  a  '  pore 
white.' 

"  At  any  rate,  when  he  said  again,  solemnly  and 
slowly  : 

"  Knowing  all  this,  Betty  Certain,  will  you  be  my 
wife }  Will  you  take  the  bond  of  faithfulness  to  one 
who  has  given  the  freshness  of  his  love  to  another  "i 
And  will   you    be   the    almoner   of  my  bounty   to   the 


196  A   ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

Hagar  of  my  youth,  when  death  shall  have  palsied  m) 
hand  and  sealed  my  lips  ?' 

"Then  I  looked  up  at  him,  and  answered,  *I  will.* 

"  He  gazed  at  me  searchingly  a  moment,  and  said, 
'  In   very  truth  ?' 

"  '  In  very  truth,'  I  replied. 

"  Then  he  fell  upon  his  knees  beside  the  rocky  seat, 
and,  with  streaming  eyes  and  quivering  lips,  thanked 
God  that  He  had  opened  a  way  for  him  out  of  his 
calamity,  and  had  prepared  a  means  whereby  the  load 
of  his  sin  might  be  lightened.  I  never  heard  another 
such  a  prayer.  And  when  it  was  over  he  rose,  and, 
putting  an  arm  about  my  waist,  drew  me  to  him,  kissed 
my  forehead,  and  said : 

" '  God  bless  you,  Betty  Certain,  God  bless  you ! 
You  do  not  know  what  you  have  saved  me  from ;  and 
you  have  won  more  love  than  I  thought  it  possible  to 
give.' 

"  He  looked  into  my  eyes,  from  which  the  tears 
were  streaming,  and,  reading  there  the  joy  that  filled 
my  heart,  he  clasped  me  closer,  and  said : 

"  '  And  you  are  happy  ?  Thank  God  !  I  know 
now  that  He  will  give  me  a  new  love,  stronger  than 
the  old  passion,  and  pure  and  bright.' 

"  Then  all  was  light,  and  my  heart  danced  to  the 
melody  of  Love's  holy  hymn  until  the  great  shadow 
fell  upon  my  life.  The  hope  that  Arthur  Lovett  would, 
or  might,  one  day  love  me,  even  with  a  heart  scarred 
and  blasted  by  an  unholy  passion,  was  enough — I  asked 


no  more. 


After   a    moment  we  went   out  of  my  old  summer 


I 


EXCEPTIO  PROBAT  REGULAM.  197 

palace,  .by  the  cedar-bough  door,  through  the  pine 
thicket,  by  the  spring,  to  the  house.  The  pathway  has 
grown  up  now,  and  I  have  rarely  been  there  since. 
The  world  seemed  different  when  we  came  out  from 
what  it  was  when  we  went  in.  It  had  blown  up 
cold  and  bleak.  The  sun  still  shone,  but  dully  and 
chill. 

"  When  we  came  to  the  house  my  mother  was  at 
home.  She  had  never  liked  Arthur  Lovett,  and  met 
us  coldly.  Arthur  told  her  I  had  consented  to  be- 
come his  wife,  and  asked  her  acquiescence.  She  re- 
plied '  that  she  should  neither  consent  nor  oppose,  but 
she  thought  his  previous  course  promised  but  little 
happiness  to  the  wife  he  might  marry ;  that  she  never 
did  like  the  idea  of  rich  and  pore  folks  marrying  to- 
gether— but  little  good  came  on  'c  generally.' 

"  She  never  opened  her  lips  about  the  matter  again. 
In  all  the  trouble  of  the  future  she  never  uttered  a 
word  of  blame,  nor  asked  a  syllable  of  explanation. 

"  So  he  bade  me  good  night,  and  went  away,  and  I, 
the  betrothed  wife  of  Arthur  Lovett,  stood  in  the  door 
of  my  mother's  humble  cottage  and  watched  him  as  he 
went  towards  his  home.  I  did  not  think  I  had  yielded 
to  his  prayer  because  he  was  so  much  above  me  in 
society — though  I  was  mighty  tired  of  being  poor  Betty 
Certain — still  less  had  I  consented  on  account  of  a 
plea  he  had  put  forth  for  Belle,  though  indeed  I  did 
pity  the  poor  girl  with  all  my  heart.  But  I  think  it  was 
mainly  because  his  whole  story  had  been  a  cry  for  help. 
I  loved  him  so  that  I  would  have  gone  to  the  world's 
end  to  do  him  the  slightest  service      Why,  then,  should 


198  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

I  not  accept  the  way  which  opened  to  me  the  sanctuary 
of  his  heart? 

"  I  shivered  as  I  went  in.  The  future  seemed  dark 
and  chill  as  well  as  the  closing  autumn  day.  But  yet  I 
was  strong  and  firm,  and  happy,  too — for  I  meant  that 
Arthur  should  love  me  some  day,  as  he  said  he  might." 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

TRANSITION, 

'^  '^  I  ^HIS  was  the  beginning  and  end  of  our  court- 
X  ship.  Arthur  had  but  two  requests  to  make. 
The  first,  that  we  should  be  married  as  soon  as  possible^ 
the  other,  that  I  should  spend  the  time  intervening  at 
the  Lodge,  with  his  sisters,  who  would  come  in  a  few 
days.  He  said  the  first  request  was  for  his  own  sake. 
He  had  an  impression  that  he  would  not  live  many- 
months,  and  he  wanted  to  be  sure  that  his  desires  would 
be  fulfilled  in  case  he  should  not.  At  all  events,  hav- 
ing determined  upon  this  course  he  did  not  wish  to 
omit  any  chance  for  its  failure.  He  therefore  desired 
the  arrangement  consummated  at  an  early  day,  and 
he  wished  me  to  come  and  live  with  his  sisters  for 
my  own  sake,  as,  if  our  relation  was  thus  openly  ac- 
knowledged, there  would  be  less  inclination  to  scan- 
dalous reports  upon  the  part  of  our  neighbors.  I 
had  no  opposition    to   offer   to  either  proposition. 

"  His  sisters  came  the  next  week,  and  the  week 
after  it  was  decided  that  the  Executors  of  his  father's 
estate  could  hold  the  slaves  in  dispute.  Your  father 
came  home  from  court  and  wrote  to  Arthur  upon  the 
subject  at  once.  Arthur  received  his  letter  on  Satur- 
day, we  talked  it  over  that  evening,  and  on  Sunday 
your    father   came   here    and   had   a   long   conversation 


200  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

with  him.  His  idea  was  that  Arthur  had  better  let  the 
slaves  be  sold,  and  then  deal  with  the  buyers,  thinking 
that  if  it  were  known  that  he  was  interested  in  the 
bidding  the  creditors  would  run  them  up  on  him,  in 
order  to  get  money  on  their  debts.  Arthur  told  him 
of  our  intended  marriage,  but  without  explanation  as  to 
its  cause.  I  think  from  your  father's  subsequent  de- 
meanor towards  me,  that  he  thought  it  the  trick  of  a 
'poor  white'  woman,  to  get  a  husband  above  her. 

"Your  father  was  a  good  man,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  and  I 
am  not  sure  that  I  did  right  in  not  confiding  in  him 
after  Arthur's  death.  But  I  could  not  trust  any  one 
then,   all  was  so  confused  and  strange. 

"Well,  your  father's  advice  was  taken,  and  Arthur 
promised  to  give  uj)  possession  of  the  slaves  without 
remonstrance.  The  matter  was  clearly  understood  with 
Belle,  as  he  told  me,  that  she  and  the  children  were 
to  be  sold,  and,  after  a  short  time  had  elapsed,  he  was  to 
buy  them  back,  take  them  North  and  set  them  free;  so, 
when  they  were  again  demanded  by  the  Executor,  they 
were  surrendered  w^ithout  opposition. 

"Arthur's  sisters,  who  were  now  at  the  Lodge,  were 
weak,  vain  women,  rather  past  the  prime,  and  quite 
inclined  to  attribute  their  solitary  condition  to  their 
brother's  irregularities.  The  insolvency  of  their  father's 
estate  had  not  tended  to  improve  their  tempers,  and 
the  knowledge  that  their  brother — after  breaking  off 
with  Belle — proposed  at  once  to  marry  a  poor  girl  of 
the  neighborhood  was  altogether  too  much  for  their 
aristocratic  instincts;  and  the  welcome  they  gave  me 
was  far  from  cordial.     I  endeavored,  at  first,  to  mollify 


TRANSITION.  201 

their  resentment,  but,  finding  that  mildness  was  thrown 
away  upon  them,  I  took  up  my  own  defense  and 
answered  scorn  with  railing,  to  so  good  purpose  that 
in  a  short  time  they  were  forced  to  ask  a  truce  for  the 
mere  sake  of  quiet.  That  was  all  I  expected,  or,  indeed, 
desired — for,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  had  no  use  for  Arthur's 
sisters.  They  were  selfish  and  insincere,  but  I  did  not 
think  so  hardly  of  them  until  after  his  death.  I  have 
reason  to  believe  that,  although  they  ceased  all  direct 
assault  upon  me,  they,  nevertheless,  continued  to  assail 
me  to  Arthur,  and  constantly  opposed  our  marriage. 
I  have  always  thought  they  were  instrumental  in  put- 
ting it  off,  from  Christmas,  when  it  was  to  have  taken 
place,  until  the  following  Spring,  and  I  have  never  been 
quite  free  from  the  impression  that  they  also  caused  his 
death — though  my  confidence  in  this  suspicion  has 
been   considerably  shaken. 

"  Well,  we  lived  here  at  the  Lodge  while  the  prepa- 
rations were  being  made  for  our  wedding — Arthur,  his 
sisters,  and  myself.  Arthur  had  made  your  father  his 
agent  to  conduct  the  affairs  relating  to  Belle,  and  we 
were  to  proceed  upon  our  trip  at  once  after  the  mar- 
riage. It  was  intended  that  we  should  be  absent  three 
months  or  more,  and  in  contemplation  of  this  absence 
Arthur  had  carefully  arranged  all  his  business  matters 
and  had  also  made  his  will.  He  conversed  with  me 
freely  upon  all  his  matters  of  business,  and  seemed 
to  lean  upon  me  as  if  he  found  me  very  necessary 
to  him.  He  seemed  to  think  my  plain,  blunt  sense 
was  worthy  of  consideration,  and  we  came  to  converse 

of   all   our   affairs  with   the   cool   matter-of-fact   manner 
14 


202  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

which  rarely  comes  till  after  marriage.  There  was  no 
love  on  his  part,  at  least  he  said  not,  though  it  is  a 
comfort  to  me  now,  to  think  that  his  feeling  toward 
me  was  far  warmer  than  he  thought.  For  me,  I  was 
so  far  below  him  that  my  regard  was  more  like  wor- 
ship than  love.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  it  was,  Mr. 
Geoffrey,  but  when  I  saw  that  every  thought  of  his  life 
almost  was  to  put  that  woman  Belle  and  her  children 
beyond  the  danger  of  servitude,  and  when  he  even 
asked  me  to  be  his  wife  in  order  that  he  might  have  a 
still  stronger  motive  to  put  them  away,  wishing  thereby 
to  pledge  his  honor  to  me,  as  well  as  his  love  for  them, 
for  their  good — somehow,  after  that,  he  seemed  glorified 
to  my  eyes  as  no  other  mortal  ever  was.  Then,  too, 
the  reason  was  plain  why  he  had  chosen  me.  Not  be- 
cause he  loved  me,  but  in  order  that  he  might  shield 
me  from  ill-repute,  thus  again  sacrificing  his  own  interest, 
and  perhaps  happiness,  for  my  honor.  To  say  that  I 
loved  him  would  but  faintly  express  my  feelings  toward 
him.  I  know  now  that  God  only  should  receive  the  ven- 
eration which  I  gave  to  him.  I  do  n't  suppose  another 
woman  would  have  felt  so,  but  I  couldn't  help  it.  I 
had  lived  a  sort  of  odd  and  lonely  life  at  best,  having 
to  do  with  few,  either  men  or  women,  and  had  filled  my 
world  more  with  those  people  one  meets  in  books  and 
fancy  than  those  who  really  live  on  earth. 

"  I  loved  Arthur  Lovett,  not  wildly  or  passionately, 
but  with  the  steady  adoration  which  might  be  given  to 
one  immeasurably  a  superior.  So  it  was  almost  like  a 
foretaste  of  heaven  when  he  would  say,  after  our  supper 
at  night  '• 


TRANSITION.  203 

"  *  Betty,  come  into  the  library  for  a  little  while,  I 
want  to  consult  you  on  some  matters.' 

''I  thought  then,  as  I  know  now,  that  he  did  this 
knowing  how  much  pleasure  it  would  give  to  me,  rather 
than  get  my  poor  notion  upon  whatever  he  was  intend- 
ing to  do." 

"You  said  that  he  consulted  you  about  his  will," 
said  Geoffrey.  "  Did  you  see  it  in  its  completed  form 
— =or  as  near  completed  as  he  left  it.?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  replied.  "They  would  never  have 
found  it  at  all  if  it  had  n't  been  for  my  telling  your 
father  where  it  was.  I  knew  it  was  not  signed,  and  did 
not  suppose  it  could  be  of  any  value.  So  I  thought 
for  a  time  that  I  would  just  leave  it  where  it  was  till 
I  had  an  opportunity  to  get  it  out  and  keep  it  myself 
in  memory  of  his  trust  and  confidence  in  me,  and  also 
of  the  kindly  heart  he  bore  towards  those  whom  it 
seemed  he  could  not  help,  alive  or  dead,  do  what  he 
might.  But  then  I  thought  it  was  but  right  to  let  his 
sisters  and  the  world  know  what  he  had  intended  to 
do,  even  if  he  had  failed  to  accomplish  it.  I  was  in 
hopes,  too,  that  they  might  regard  his  wishes  far  enough 
to  have  the  gal  and  her  children  set  free,  even  if  his 
will  was  not  lawful." 

"  You   knew  that   his  will  was  not   signed,  you  say. 
.  How  did  you  know  that.?"  queried  Geoffrey. 

"  Well,  you  see  we  were  to  have  been  married  the 
next  day.  That  was  the  loth  of  April.  His  sisters,  as 
I  told  you,  had  succeeded  in  putting  off  the  wedding 
on  one  plea  and  another,  but  chiefly,  they  said,  because 
my    clothes   w^re  n't   fitting ;    which,    indeed,    was   true 


204  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

enough,  for  we  poor  folks  do  n't  often  need  anything 
better  than  linsey,  and  if  we  did,  hav'n't  the  where- 
withal to  get  it.  Besides  that,  I  was  n't  much  given 
to  dress  at  any  time,  and  until  Arthur  took  an  interest 
in  me,  cared  but  little  what  I  wore. 

"  Arthur  agreed  that  his  sisters  were  in  the  right 
and  that  I  ought  to  have  a  good  stock  of  dresses 
made  up  before  we  married.  So  we  'd  been  all  this 
time  buying,  and  sewing,  and  getting  all  things  ready. 
I  should  not  have  taken  much  interest  in  it  if  Arthur 
had  not  seemed  to  watch  every  preparation  with  a  boy- 
ish delight.  His  sisters  hated  me  powerful,  but  they 
had  a  heap  o'  pride  and  wanted  me  to  make  a  proper 
show.  So  they  planned  and  fussed  till  one  would  have 
thought  they  were  going  to  be  married  themselves. 

"That  last  day,  in  the  evening,  all  the  bride's  dresses 
had  been  taken  into  the  library  for  Arthur  to  look  at, 
and  they  were  left  all  about  the  room  at  night.  After 
supper  we  had  our  usual  chat  there,  and  a  very  gay 
one  it  was,  too,  for  us.  He  laughed  at  my  rusticity, 
because  of  all  the  dresses  I  preferred  a  certain  gray 
one,  which  was  intended  only  to  travel  in,  and  said  he 
would  teach  me  better  taste  before  we  returned  from 
our  tour. 

"  He  told  me  that  he  had  finished  the  final  draft  of 
his  will  and  burned  all  the  others ;  that  the  next  day, 
the  first  thing  after  we  were  married,  he  meant  to  sign 
it,  and  have    your  father   and    the   minister  witness    it. 

"*  And  then,  Betty,'  said  he,  'I  shall  put  it  here  in 
this  drawer' — pointing  to  one  in  that  very  desk — *  which 
no  one  else  knows  of,  and  where  it  will  be  perfectly  safe. 


TRANSITION,  205 

1  will  show  you  how  to  open  the  drawer,  so  that  you 
can  find  it  if  I  should  die  on  our  journey;  but  you 
must  be  sure  and  have  Mr.  Hunter,  or  some  other  relia- 
ble person  with   you,  when  you  open  it/" 

"  But  there  is  no  secret  drawer  in  that  desk,"  said 
Geoffrey. 

"Didn't  your  father  tell  you,  Mr.  Geoffrey.?  He 
must  have  forgotten  it.  Let  me  show  you,  then,"  said 
the  woman. 

"  Now,  you  just  unlock  that  upper  drawer,  and 
open  it  half  way  or  so.  Now  put  your  hand  inside 
and  run  it  along  the  inside  of  the  upper  part,  until  you 
find  a  little  knob.  Now  press  this  toward  you  and  a 
shallow  drawer  will  fall  down." 

Geoffrey  did  as  directed,  when  the  concealed  drawer, 
or  tray  rather,  fell  down  on  its  hinges.  It  disclosed  a 
folded  paper,  which  he  took  out  and  found  to  be  in 
his  father's  handwriting — and  to  this  effect : 

''April  15,  1845. 
"  I  opened  this  secret  drawer  in  the  desk  of  Arthur 
Lovett,  this  day,  on  the  information  of  Betty  Certain, 
in  her  presence,  and  in  that  of  George  Rawson  and 
James  M.  Dixon,  and  found  herein  the  unsigned  hol- 
ograph will  of  the  said  Arthur  Lovett,  and  opened 
and  read  the  same  in  the  presence  of  the  parties 
above-named.  {Signed)  Manuel  Hunter." 

"  So  this  is  where  the  will,  which  I  received  from 
my  father,  was  found,  is  it.?"  said  Geoffrey,  musingly. 
"  Poor  fellow.  It  is  a  pity  it  could  not  have  been 
carried    out.      He   seemed    so   much   in    earnest   about 


20G  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

it.      Do   you   suppose  he    anticipated   any  special    dan- 
ger?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  answered;  "he  seemed  very 
much  concerned  about  the  condition  of  his  affairs,  in 
case  he  should  die,  and  talked  of  it  a  great  deal  in  a 
way  that  made  me  shiver  with  dread.  I  am  quite  sure 
he  did  not  expect  to  live  very  long ;  but  whether  he 
anticipated  disease  or  violence  I  could  not  say.  He 
was  sometimes  very  low  in  spirits,  and  took  a  very 
gloomy  view  of  the  future.  At  such  times  one  would 
have  thought  he  apprehended  almost  immediate  death." 


CHAPTER   XX, 

BEFORE    THE    WEDDING. 

**  T  TE  seemed  to  be  constantly  apprehensive  that  his 
\.  X  favorite  scheme  might  fail  through  his  unex- 
pected death.  I  think  his  will  would  have  been  prop- 
erly executed  before,  but  he  had  somehow  reasoned 
himself  into  the  belief,  or  got  the  belief  without  rea- 
soning, that  he  would  leave  me  as  his  widow,  to  settle 
and  arrange  affairs  as  he  desired. 

*'  I  do  not  think  he  expected  to  outlive  his  marriage 
a  great  while.  He  said  to  me  once  that  he  would  give 
me  his  hand  in  marriage  in  order  to  make  me  his  hand 
in  death.  I  feared  that  he  intended  suicide,  until  he 
once  said  to  me  that  no  man  was  worth  saving  who 
could  not  endure  his  lot  upon  earth  until  it  pleased 
God  to  call  him  to  leave  it.  Knowing  his  strong  faith 
which  had  outlasted  all  irregularities  of  life  and  all  the 
scath  of  error,  I  at  once  abandoned  this  idea. 

"  It  may  seem  presumptuous,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  but  I 
have  often  thought  that  Arthur  Lovett  had  a  clear 
forewarning  of  his  end,  though  his  mind  was  no  doubt 
troubled  as  to  its  cause  and  source.  This  may  be  only 
a  notion,  but  I  can  account  for  his  acts  in  no  other 
way. 

"  As  I  said,  we  were  to  be  married  the  next  day,  and 
the  new  dresses  were  here  in  the  library.     Among  them 


508  ^  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

was  the  soft  gray  one,  which  I  admired  so  much,  and 
Arthur  had  laughed  at  me  for  preferring  over  the  richer 
and  gayer  ones.  It  was  hanging  over  a  chair  at  the 
other  end  of  the  table,  and  I  kept  thinking  while  Arthur 
was  talking  to  me  about  the  will  and  such  matters  that 
it  would  become  me  better  as  his  wife  than  all  the  rest 
of  the  finery  there. 

"  I  never  spoke  of  it  to  a  human  soul  before,  Geof- 
frey Hunter,  but  I  am  as  sure  as  if  I  had  seen  it  with 
my  own  eyes  that  Arthur  Lovett  was  killed  by  a  woman's 
hand.  I  do  n't  know  how  it  was  managed,  and  I  won't 
say  what  woman  did  it,  but  this  you  may  be  sure  of, 
it  was  a  ivomaiis  hand  that  took  his  life.'' 

"A  woman's.?  What  makes  you  think  so.?"  asked 
Geoffrey,  surprised  at  her  earnestness. 

"Because  no  one  but  a  woman  would  have  taken 
from  the  room  what  the  person  who  murdered  him  did," 
she  answered.    • 

"  Why,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  I  always  understood  that 
nothing  was  missed  from  the  room." 

"There  was  not,  by  any  one  but  me,"  she  replied. 

"And  what  did  you  miss.?"  asked  Geoffrey. 

"The  one  who  murdered  him  took  away  that  gray 
dress,"  she  answered  slowly. 

Geoffrey  started,  and  as  his  mind  comprehended  fully 
how  powerfully  this  circumstance  pointed  to  the  sisters 
of  Lovett,  he  said  with  a  shudder: 

"  You  say  that  this  dress  was  the  least  valuable  of 
all  those  which  were  in  the  room.?" 

"  It  was,  and  not  of  a  value  or  appearance  to  tempt 
any  one,  beside  the  others,"  Miss  Betty  replied. 


BEFORE  THE   WEDDING.  209 

"You  think,  then,  that  the  taking  of  that  dress 
pointed  to  a  hostility  toward  yourself?"  Geoffrey  asked. 

"  I  prized  it  more  than  all  the  rest.  Depend  upon 
it,  Mr.  Hunter,  it  was  a  woman  who  took  it,  and  one 
who  knew  my  fancy  for  it,  too.  She  took  that  dress  to 
show  me  that  the  blow  was  aimed  more  at  me  than  at 
Arthur  Lovett,"  was  Miss  Betty's  earnest  reply. 

"Who  knew  of  your  fancy  for  this  dress.''"  Geoffrey 
asked. 

"  Arthur  Lovett  and  his  two  sisters,"  she  answered, 
steadily  and  coldly. 

"No  other  person.^"  he  asked. 

"  No  other  person,"  was  the  reply. 

"  You  think,  then,  that  Lovett's  sisters  caused  his 
death?"  Geoffrey  said. 

"  I  was  sure  of  it  once,  now  I  do  n't  know  what  to 
think,"  said  Miss  Betty,  slowly. 

"Why  did  you  not  speak  of  this  at  the  time?"  asked 
Geoffrey. 

"  You  forget  how  I  was  placed,"  said  Miss  Betty. 
"  It  would  simply  have  been  deemed  an  insane  attempt 
on  the  part  of  a  poor  white  girl,  who  had  beguiled  a 
gentleman  into  a  promise  of  marriage,  to  wreak  her  dis- 
appointment by  trying  to  throw  suspicion  upon  two  re- 
spectable ladies  of  unquestionable  character  and  motive. 
No,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  I  knew  nothing  about  law,  but  com- 
mon sense  taught  me  that.  So,  when  I  saw  I  was  struck, 
I  did  not  squeal,  but  sat  down  to  watch  and  see  if  time 
did  n't  put  the  rest  of  the  threads  in  my  hands.  I  al- 
ways thought  I  should  see  my  way  clear  some  time, 
and  I  have  not  lost  faith  yet." 


210  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

"  But  you  said  you  did  not  know  what  to  think 
now,"  said  Geoffrey.  "You  are  not,  then,  so  sure  that 
a  woman  did  the  deed  ?" 

"Just  as  sure  that  it  was  a  woman,"  answered  Miss 
Betty,  "but  fiot  so  sure  what  one  it  was." 

"  What  one!"  said  Geoffrey  in  surprise.  "What 
one  could  it  be,  if  not  one  of  his  sisters.?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  replied,  "and  yet  I  am  not 
sure  it  was  one  of  them." 

"  What  has  occurred  to  change  your  mind  on  this 
subject.?"  asked  Geoffrey. 

"  The  knowledge  that  the  same  person  who  killed 
Arthur  Lovett  attempted  Toinette's  life!"  said  she, 
looking  earnestly  at  Geoifrey  Hunter. 

"What!"  exclaimed  Geoffrey,  springing  from  his 
chair.     "The  same  person!     How  do  you  know.?" 

"  She  wore  the  dress  which  was  made  for  me,  and 
which  was  in  Arthur  Lovett's  room  when  I  left  him  on 
the  night  of  his  murder,  and  was  taken  away  by  the 
person  who  killed  him,"  said  Miss  Betty,  slowly. 

"What!  wore  your  dress !  What  proof  have  you.?" 
cried  Geoffrey,  with  a  look  and  tone  of  horror. 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  saying  what  I  cannot 
prove,"  said  Betty  Certain,  with  a  sort  of  testiness  in 
her  tone.  "  If  I  had  been,  I  should  have  told  a  good 
deal  years  ago.  I  had  chance  enough,  goodness  knows, 
with  Manuel  Hunter  begging  at  me  early  and  late,  in 
public  and  private.  I  am  sure  he  thought  I  might 
have  put  my  finger  on  the  murderer  if  I  had  been  so 
minded;  and  I  thought  I  could  then  myself,  but  I 
don't  know  now.     But  if  vou  want  to  know  what  sat- 


BEFORE   THE   WEDDING.  211 

isfies  me  that  the  woman  who  killed  Arthur  Lovett 
was  the  one  who  tried  to  kill  your  Toinette,  it 's  just 
this :  I  picked  up  this  in  the  passage  where  Leon 
fought  with  the  woman,"  and  she  took  from  her  pocket 
the  fragment  she  had  picked  up  in  the  hall  and  handed 
it  to  Geoffrey. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  "it  is  part  of  the  left  sleeve — 
and,  if  you  will  look  closely,  you  will  see  by  the  fresh 
color  that  there  has  been  some  trimming  on  it  about 
half  an  inch  deep,  and  sort  of  diamond  shaped." 

Geoffrey  looked  at  the  fragment,  which  was  some 
four  Or  five  inches  long,  and  about  three  inches  wide 
at  the  bottom,  and  somewhat  triangular  in  shape,  having 
evidently  been  torn  out  by  the  dog's  teeth,  catching  at 
the  upper  angle.  He  saw  evident  marks  of  the  trim* 
ming  spoken  of,  and  also  drops  of  blood.  This  mys* 
tery  appalled  him. 

"That  trimming  was  velvet  ribbon,  and  that  is  a 
piece  of  my  grey  dress  which  was  taken  from  the 
library  here  the  night  he  was  killed,"  said  Miss  Betty. 
"  I  remember  everything  abeut  that  dress  as  though  it 
were  yesterday.  I  could  not  quite  call  it  up  at  first, 
and  kept  turning  the  piece  round  my  finger,  that 
morning  I  first  saw  it,  till  it  all  came  as  plain  as 
day,  when  Toinette  first  opened  her  eyes  on  me,  as  I 
sat  by  the  sofa.  That's  the  main  reason  why  I  came 
here,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  and  one  reason  why  I  have  stayed. 
I  knew  Arthur  Lovett's  murderer  had  been  here 
once  since  his  death,  and  hoped  she  might  come 
again." 

"Hoped   she  might  come  again!"  said  Geoffrey,  in 


212  A  J^OYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

surprise  and  vexation.  "  You  did  not  want  any  one  else 
killed,  did  you?" 

"Certainly  not/'  she  replied,  "but  I  did  want  to  find 
out  the  murderer,  and  I  thought  if  she  came  I  would 
see  her,  and  perhaps  know  her,  and  be  able  to  bring 
her  to  justice  yet." 

"  It 's  a  pity  you  have  been  disappointed,"  said  Geof- 
frey ;  "  though,  I  must  say,  I  am  not  sorry  that  a 
woman  of  such  inclinations  should  decide  to  stay  away 
from  my  house." 

"She  has  not  stayed  away!"  said  Miss  Betty. 

"Not  stayed  away.?  How  so.?  Have  you  seen  her.?" 
he  asked,  hurriedly. 

"I  have,"  she  replied. 

"When  and  where?"  asked  Geoffrey. 

"  Last  night,  upon  the  porch,  at  the  window  of  your 
sitting-room,"  continued  Miss  Betty. 

"How  did  you  happen  to  see  her  there?"  asked 
Geoffrey. 

"After  my  conversation  with  you  yesterday,"  said 
Miss  Betty,  "I  went  home,  but,  somehow,  when  I  got 
to  thinking  of  these  matters  of  which  I  have  told  you, 
I  thought  I  ought  not  to  leave  you  in  ignorance  of  what 
I  knew,  even  for  a  single  night.  It  troubled  me  so 
that  I  finally  started  over  here.  It  was  perhaps  an 
hour  after  daylight  down  when  I  left  home.  When  I 
got  here,  I  climbed  over  the  side-fence  into  the  front 
yard,  instead  of  going  round  by  the  gate  or  back  by  the 
quarters.  As  I  came  along  under  the  trees  and  among 
the  shrubbery,  I  heard  some  one  singing  in  the  sitting- 
room.     I   came  around    the  end   of  the   porchj  to  the 


BEFORE   THE   WEDDING.  213 

Steps,  and  looked  up  at  the  windows  of  the  sitting- 
room,  which  were  lighted,  and  there  I  saw  a  woman 
looking  in  and  shaking  her  head  and  clenched  hand 
at  some  one  on  the  inside." 

"Did  you  see  her  face?  Who  is  she?"  asked 
Geoffrey,  impetuously. 

"I  saw  her  face  plainly,"  she  answered,  "but  I  do 
not  know  who  she  is.  One  thing  I  do  know,  however. 
She  is  not  either  of  the  sisters  of  Arthur  Lovett." 

"  Describe  her  appearance,"  said  Geoffrey. 

"  She  is  a  woman  of  near  my  height,  of  sharp,  regular 
features,  and  with  hair  as  white  as  snow  that  falls  down 
to  her  waist,"  said  Miss  Betty. 

"And  her  dress?"  asked  Geoffrey. 

"  She  had  on  the  dress  of  which  you  have  a  piece," 
she   answered,    "  I   noticed   that   especially." 

"Well,  what  became  of  her?"  he  asked. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  said.  "  I  was  so  beat  by 
seeing  her  there — though  I  had  watched  for  her  many 
a  night — that  I  think  I  must  have  fainted,  for  when  I 
came  to  myself  again  I  was  sitting  in  the  angle  of  the 
porch-wall  and  the  steps,  and  the  light  was  out  in  the 
house.  I  am  not  much  accustomed  to  fright,  Mr. 
Geoffrey,  but  I  was  terribly  frightened  then.  While  I 
stood  there  thinking  what  I  ought  to  do,  I  heard  a 
step,  and  saw  the  figure  of  that  woman  come  out  from 
under  the  other  end  of  the  porch  and  go  down  to  the 
lane.  I  followed  carefully,  but  lost  sight  of  her  in 
the  old  field  beyond.  Then  I  came  back  here  and 
watched  till  day,  but  she  did  not  come  again." 

"Strange,"  said  Geoffrey,  musingly;  "that  was  pre- 


214  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

cisely  the  Impression  produced  on  me  the  night  of  the 
assault  on  Toinette.  It  tallies  with  her  description  of 
the  woman  she  saw  looking  through  the  window,  which 
Maggie  also  saw  and  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  as  she 
passed  by,  and  exactly  fits  the  negroes'  tales  of  the 
Ghost  of  Lovett  Lodge.  Mistress  Certain,  you  have 
undoubtedly  seen  the  ghost,''  he  added,  jocularly. 

"Mr.  Geoffrey,"  she  replied,  "I  know  nothing  about 
ghosts,  and  do  n't  believe  in  them  at  all ;  but  if  I  did, 
I  should  know  this— 'that  it  was  no  ghost  I  saw  last 
night.  It  was  a  real,  flesh  and  blood,  woman,  and  an 
angry  and  dangerous  one,  too," 

Geoffrey  did  not  reply,  but  rose  and  walked  the 
room  in  troubled  thought.  It  was  very  strange,  this 
baffling  mystery.  He  had  tried  to  grasp  it  for  tw^o 
years,  and  yet  it  came  and  went  about  him  -with  im- 
punity. His  enclosure,  his  house,  even  his  most  secret 
hours  were  open  to  this  gray-clad  specter.  Toinette 
had  seen  it,  and  Maggie.  He  doubted  not  that  only 
the  purest  accident  had  saved  the  former  from  death. 
He,  himself,  had  had  a  glimpse  of  it,  and  now,  at  last, 
strong,  cold-blooded,  sensible  Betty  Certain  had  been 
scared  half  out  of  her  wits  by  the  apparition.  It 
had  been  unseen  for  a  year  or  more.  Now  it  had 
reappeared.  And  still  it  had  Toinette  under  surveil- 
lance. Why  did  it  follow  that  girl  so  persistently,  or 
was  it  not  the  girl,  but  himself,  who  was  shadowed.? 
If  himself,  why  should  he  be  an  object  of  resentment.'* 
And  whether  himself  or  the  girl,  why  should  the  assas- 
sin of  Arthur  Lovett  pursue  them }  .  These  questions 
he  could  not  answer. 


BEFORE   THE   WEDDING.  215 

Betty  Certain  sat  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  re- 
garding the  fire  attentively,  and  Geoffrey  could  not 
help  appealing  to  her  in  his  extremity. 

"  What  does  it  mean,  Mrs.  Certain  1  Who  can  be 
dogging  either  me  or  Toinette  in  this  manner.?"  he 
asked,  anxiously. 

"It  's  hard  to  say  who^  Mr.  Geoffrey,  but  it  is  very 
evident  that  it  means  no  good  to  one  of  you.  As  it 
was  Toinette  before,  I  think  it 's  likely  to  be  her  now. 
If  she  stays  here  I  do  n't  see  how  she  is  to  avoid  the 
knife  that  came  so  near  taking  her  off  before,"  said 
Miss  Betty. 

"  That  reminds  me,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  that  I  wanted 
to  show  you  that  knife,  and  ask  if  you  knew  anything 
about  it." 

"  I  noticed  it,"  she  answered,  ''  that  first  morning 
on  which  we  met,  in  the  drawer  of  the  desk,  which 
was  open  when  I  came  in,  and  again  when  you  showed 
it  to  the  doctor.  It  was  one  that  used  to  belong  to 
Arthur  Lovett.  I  have  heard  him  say  that  it  was  the 
dirk  of  some  foreign  robber,  perhaps  an  Italian,  which 
had  been  the  instrument  of  a  great  many  murders  be- 
fore he  got  it.  He  bought  it  when  abroad  as  a  curi- 
osity. Yes,  I  recollect  there  was  an  Italian  legend 
upon  the  hilt,   something  in  this  wise  : 

"  *  Revenge  seeks  not  the  form  to  mar 
With  reeking  wound  and  gaping  scar.' " 

"  It  is  here  now,"  said  he,  as  he  opened  a  drawer 
of  the  table-desk  and  examined  its  contents.  "  Why, 
how  is  this .?"  he  continued.  "  I  am  sure  I  placed  it 
here.     Who  could  have  taken  it  out .?" 


216  A   ROYAL    GENTLEMAN. 

"  Depend  upon  it,  Geoffrey  Hunter,  the  hand  that  took 
it  will  find  a  use  for  it  soon ;  and  your  Toinette  will  not 
come  off  so  easily  next  time,"  said  the  woman  earnestly. 

Apparently,  the  absence  of  the  dagger  impressed 
Geoffrey  with  more  anxiety  than  all  the  conversation 
with  Miss  Betty  had  done.  He  sat  turning  over  the 
various  articles  which  the  drawer  contained,  in  an  ab- 
sent, puzzled  manner,  for  a  time ;  then  turning "  to  the 
woman,  he  said,  suddenly : 

"  Mrs.  Certain,  I  cannot  bear  that  any  harm  should 
befall  Toinette  from  her  presence  here.  It  is  not  right 
that  I  should  expose  her  thus  to  danger.  Our  con- 
versation about  Arthur  Lovett  has  given  me  some  fears 
that  I  might  travel  the  same  road.  I  do  not  think  I 
am  a  coward,  nor  was  he  ;  but  there  seems  to  be  the 
same  dark  fate  about  my  life  that  hung  over  that  of 
my  predecessor  at  the  Lodge.  I  have  a  mind  to  lib- 
erate this  girl,  Toinette,  and  take  her  North  at  once. 
You  have  spoken  of  desiring  to  go  with  her,  Miss 
Betty.     Do  you  still  wish  it .?" 

''  I  cannot  go  now,  Mr.  Geoffrey,"  she  answered. 
"  When  the  mystery  of  Arthur's  death  seemed  far  be- 
yond my  reach,  or  rather  when  I  thought  I  knew  its 
cause  and  could  not  bring  the  criminals  to  justice — 
because  they  were  his  sisters — I  was  anxious  to  go  away. 
Now  I  am  satisfied  that  it  was  not  those  sisters,  but 
another  woman,  and  I  cannot  go  away  until  I  have 
stripped  the  vail  from  her  face,  and  unraveled  the  mys- 
tery of  his  death.  I  must  stay  here  and  watch.  But 
I  do  hope  you  will  do  as  you  say  before  further  harm 
befalls  the  poor  girl." 


BEFORE   THE   WEDDING.  21? 

"  I  will,"  said  Geoffrey.  "  This  very  day  she  shall 
go  to  Perham,  where  I  shall  have  to  stay  until  I  can 
arrange  the  business ;  after  that  I  shall  take  her  at 
once  to  some  part  of  the  North,  and  leave  her  as  com- 
fortably settled  as  I  can." 

Betty  Certain  seemed  strongly  moved  at  this  decla- 
ration. She  stood  up  and  took  hold  of  Geoffrey's  arm. 
Her  lips  quivered,  and  tears  were  in  her  eyes,  as  she 
said  : 

"  God  bless  you,  Geoffrey  Hunter !  You  will  make 
Heaven  brighter  for  your  dear  old  mother,  if  you  do. 
Oh !  "  she  continued,  "  if  Arthur  Lovett  had  but  had 
your  determination  he  might  have  been  alive  and  happy 
now.  Alive,  at  least,"  she  continued  musingly;  "he 
hardly  could  have  been  very  happy  away  from  that 
girl." 

Geoffrey  Hunter  was  not  one  to  let  a  resolution 
grow  cold  before  it  was  acted  on.  He  instantly  or- 
dered the  carriage  to  be  brought  around  after  dinner, 
and  directed  Toinette  to  be  ready  to  accompany  him 
to  Perham. 

Returning  to  the  library,  he  said : 

"  There  are  some  papers  referring  to  Arthur  Lovett's 
affairs,  Mrs.  Certain,  which  I  wish  to  leave  in  your  hands 
until  my  return.  They  are  in  this  package  and  were 
given  to  me  by  my  father.  But,"  he  continued,  "we 
have  not  settled  yet.  Here  are  two  hundred  dollars. 
Do  you  think  that  sufficient  V 

"Too  much,  sir,",  she  answered,  "for  I  was  about 
to  ask  a  privilege  which  I  shall  hardly  dare  to  do  if 
you  pay  me  so  liberally." 

15 


218 


A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 


"What  is  it?"  asked  Geoffrey.  "I  will  grant  any- 
thing you  wish,  for  I  know  you  would  not  make  an 
unreasonable  request." 

"  It  is  that  I  may  occupy  the  Lodge  during  you: 
absence,"  said   Miss  Betty. 

"i\re    you    not    afraid    to    do    so?"    asked  Geoffrey. 

"  Now  that  my  old  notion  of  Arthur's  death  hasf 
proved  false,  I  do  not  see  why  I  should  fear  his  mur- 
derer. But  whether  I  am  in  danger  or  not,  I  am 
determined  to  find  out  who  did  it,  and  think  myself 
more  likely  to  succeed  here  than  anywhere  else,"  she 
replied. 

"Certainly,"  said  Geoffrey.  "You  are  welcome  to 
occupy  the  Lodge,  but  I  fear  you  will  have  cause  to 
regret  your  request." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  she  replied ;  "  I  will  go  now  and 
see  that  Toinette  is  ready  in  time." 


THE   OLD   COUNTY   CLERK. 

"  His  "white  hair  still  bristled  full  and  fierce  above  his  fiorehead.  and  his  sharp 
gray  eye  looked  yortli.  from  und^r  bushy  brovjs  zj'.th  undiinvied  kei.7inessy — p.  219. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


IN    THE    CLERK  S    OFFICE. 


THE   next   day  Geoffrey  Hunter  went  to   the  office 
of  the  Clerk  of  the  Superior  Court  for  the  County 
of  Cold  Spring. 

The  clerk  was  George  Rawson,  one  of  the  parties 
who  were  present  when  Manuel  Hunter  took  the  will  of 
Arthur  Lovett  from  the  secret  drawer  in  the  desk. 
He  had  been  for  thirty  years  the  clerk  of  the  Court. 
Two  or  three  generations  of  lawyers  had  gone  through 
the  treadmill  of  legal  routine  under  his  eye.  He  was 
a  patriarch  of  the  Court — a  man  of  giant  frame  and 
evident  strength  in  his  younger  days,  grown  full  and 
rotund  in  his  later  years  and  from  his  sedentary  life. 
His  white  hair  still  bristled  full  and  fierce  above  his 
forehead,  and  his  sharp  gray  eye  looked  forth  from 
under  bushy  lids  with  undimmed  keenness,  apparently 
to  demonstrate  that  the  gold-bowed  glasses  on  his  nose 
were  only  a  joke  which  he  played  to  show  how  lightly 
the  years  sat  upon  him.  The  only  triumph  which  Time 
seemed  to  have  achieved  over  him  was  in  his  hearing, 
which  was  slightly  impaired,  as  the  ready  use  of  his 
hand  as  a  sound-gatherer  testified.  The  office  was  in 
the  court-house,  upon  the  lower  floor,  and  paved  with 
brick.  The  court-house  itself  was  an  ancient  structure, 
and  the  office  contained  records  reaching  back  into  the 


220  ^4  KOYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

ante-revolutionary  days,  when  strange  judges  sometimes 
sat  upon  the  bench  and  administered  a  wild  justice 
which  has  scarcely  its  counterpart.  The  king's  judges 
of  assize  had  once  entered  by  the  door  and  gone  out  by 
the  window,  greatly  to  the  detriment  of  wigs  and  robes, 
but  glad  to  escape  with  life  minus  the  emblems  of 
dignity  from  the  hands  of  the  Regulators.  There  were 
entries  in  those  quaint  old  dockets  which  the  clerk 
had  made  with  trembling  hand  and  with  the  muzzle 
of  a  pistol  at  his  head — entries  in  which  the  forms 
of  law  were  mimicked  and  its  officers  assailed  with  a 
quaint  wit  and  ludicrous  profanity  combined.  In  this 
old  office,  with  its  dusty  shelves,  shattered  cases,  and 
mouldy  records,  sat  George  Rawson,  C.S.C.,  beside 
a  table  of  stained  and  grimy  pine,  before  a  smoulder- 
ing fire  within  the  capacious  chimney-jaws,  smoking  a 
clay  pipe,  with  the  inevitable  long  reed  stem  of  the 
country. 

He  seemed,  like  his  records,  to  be  a  relic  of  a  past 
generation — a  messenger  sent  by  the  old  Colony  to  the 
young  State,  who  had  lingered  to  see  the  effect  of 
the  message  he  was  charged  to  deliver.  Those  old 
papers  wxre  as  boyhood's  playmates  to  him.  He  knew 
their  lineaments  and  purport  at  a  glance.  He  was  a 
noble  type  of  a  race  fast  passing  away,  which  grew 
slowly  into  positions  of  trust  and  then  held  them  for  a 
lifetime,  despite  the  changes  of  party.  He  was  a  kindly 
man  of  the  justest  impulses — the  guardian  of  all 
widows  and  orphans  ex-officio^  or,  at  least,  by  color  of 
office,  and  "  Uncle  "  to  three  or  four  generations  of  boys 
and  girls. 


JlSr  THE  CLERK'S  OFFICE,  221 

No  sooner  did  he  see  Geoffrey  Hunter,  on  the  morn- 
ing of  which  we  write,  and  exchange  the  customary- 
greetings,  with  especial  inquiries  as  to  the  health  of 
the  senior  Hunter,  than  the  old  man  said : 

"I  was  just  thinking  of  you,  Geoffrey.  Sit  down 
here  and  fill  up.  I  must  have  a  talk  with  you.  Shut 
to  that  door  and  turn  the  key,  for  I  do  n't  want  any 
one  coming  in  to  interrupt  what  I  have  to  say." 

Geoffrey  protested  that  he  was  in  great  haste  and 
much  pressed  for  time,  evidently  thinking  that  the  old 
man's  social  habits  were  about  to  make  him  the  scape- 
goat of  a  morning's  loneliness. 

"  Oh,  bother  your  hurry !  I  've  got  something  to 
say  to  you  that  is  more  important  than  anything  you  're 
likely  to  find  of  record  here,  I  '11  wager.  So  sit  down 
and  be  quiet  while  I  tell  it." 

Geoffrey  at  length  complied,  and  when  he  was  fairly 
settled  to  a  smoke  with  one  of  the  old  man's  genuine 
*'  Powhatan  "  pipes,  sending  forth  clouds  of  incense  from 
the  fragrant  Kinhikannick,  the  old  man,  drawing  down 
his  brows  and  looking  up  at  his  unconcerned  auditor, 
asked  abruptly : 

"You're  livin*  at  Lovett  Lodge  now,  aren't  ye?" 

Geoffrey  was  all  attention  in  an  instant. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "why.?" 

"You've  heard,  of  course,'  resumed  the  old  man, 
"a  great  deal  about  Arthur  Lovett  and  his  oddities,  if 
I  may  call  them  so,  for  I  never  could  make  out  in  my 
own  mind  rightly,  whether  he  was  absolutely  crazy  or 
just  peculiar  and  eccentric.  And,  queer  enough,  that 
is    just   what  bothers  me  now,  and  has  for   some  time 


222  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

gone  by.  If  I  were  just  sure  now,"  said  he  musingly, 
"  that  the  man  was  phim  crazy,  so  to  speak,  I  should 
know  just  what  I  ought  to  do;  and  if  I  knew  that  he 
was  only  rattle-brained,  odd-like,  I  should  know  just 
what  I  ought  not  to  do." 

Geoffrey  remarked  that  he  did  not  see  how  the 
mental  condition  of  a  man  who  had  been  dead  almost 
a  score  of  years  could  influence  any  one's  action  now, 
or  at  least  alter  his  duty. 

"  More  than  you  think,  young  man ;  more  than  you 
think,"  said  the  old  clerk.  "Though,  by  the  way,  you 
may  be  right,  in  a  sense.  It  may  change  facts  and 
results  ;  but,  perhaps,  it  ought  not  to  affect  my  action. 
It  cannot  alter  my  duty.  The  law  must  decide  upon 
that.  You  know  that  Arthur  Lovett  was  the  owner 
of  Lovett  Lodge;  that  he  lived  there  and  died  there — 
a  very  mysterious  death,  too.  But  you  may  not  be 
aware  that  at  the  time  of  his  death  he  was  about  to 
marry  a  neighbor  of  yours,  one  Betty  Certain.  You 
had  heard  of  that  too,  eh.?  Yes,  he  was  all  ready.  The 
wedding  clothes  were  bought,  and  he  had  got  his  license 
a  week  before,  and  made  me  promise  to  come  down 
and  see  them  made  one.  It  was  an  odd  move,  and  I 
could  not  understand  it,  and  told  him  so,  when  he 
came  for  the  license ;  but  he  said  he  did  not  need  a 
guardian,  and  if  he  chose  to  marry  my  grandmother  he 
supposed  he  had  the  right  to  do  so  without  telling 
every  upstart  why  he  did  it. 

"I  told  him  I  had  no  intention  to  reflect  upon  his 
right,  but  only  repeated  the  usual  comment  on  his 
match,  in  the  hope  that  he  would  be  at  liberty  to  tell 


IiV  THE  CLERK'S  OFFICE.  223 

me  something  with  which  to  stop  the  mouths  of  mis- 
chievous  talkers. 

"  I  said  this  just  to  smooth  matters  over  with  Mr. 
Lovett,  because  he  was  not  one  that  I  wanted  any  fuss 
with.  But,  just  as  usual,  he  went  off  contrary-wise  to 
any  one  else,  and  took  it  all  in  dead  earnest,  and 
said : 

"  '  Just  so,  Mr.  Rawson.  Well,  since  you  suggest  it, 
I  will  do  so.  You  may  say  to  all  inquirers  that  I  marry 
Betty  Certain,  first,  because  I  know  her  to  be  an  honest, 
right-minded  woman,  and,  secondly,  because  in  her 
extreme  devotion  to  me,  she  compromised  her  charac- 
ter  to  save  me  from  danger  and   trouble.' 

" '  But  you  certainly  paid  that  debt  when  you  fought 
Bill   Price  on  her  account,'  I  said. 

"'I  stopped  the  tongue  of  slander,'  he  replied;  'I 
wish  to  kill  it  dead,  which  I  can  do  only  by  making 
her  my  wife.' 

"  So  I  made  out  the  license  and  he  staid  some  time 
in  the  office  talking  with  me  of  his  affairs.  He  was 
in  mighty  low  spirits,  and  said  he  had  no  idea 
that  he  would  live  any  great  length  of  time,  and 
if  his  wishes  could  only  be  carried  out,  after  he  was 
dead,  he  would  not  care  to.  In  fact,  I  thought  he  was 
about  the  most  dolorous  bridegroom  I  had  ever  seen. 

"  After  he  had  finally  left  the  office  he  came  back 
and  made  me  promise  to  come  down  to  the  wedding, 
as  he  would  have  some  business  for  me  to  do  before  he 
went  off  on  his  trip.  So,  it  was  arranged  that  he  was  to 
send  in  a  led-horse  for  me  the  night  before,  and  I  was 
to  go  out  to  the  Lodge  on  the  day  of  the  bridal.     He 


224  A  I^OYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

was  so  depressed,  however,  that  before  he  left  he 
made  me  promise  that,  if  it  should  ever  be  in  my  power 
after  his  death  to  promote  what  I  knew  to  be  his 
wishes,  without  injury  to  myself,   I  would  do  it. 

"  I  had  no  idea  that  I  should  ever  be  called  to 
do  anything  of  the  kind  ;  but  it  is  this  very  promise 
which  has  been  weighing  on  me  for  months,  and  would 
be  yet  if  it  had  not  been  for  your  remark  that  his  state 
of  mind  could  not  affect  7ny  duty.  No  more  can  it. 
If  his  desires  were  sane  and  reasonable,  it  is,  of  course, 
my  duty  to  speak  out  about  them.  If  they  were  other- 
wise, the  law  will  refuse  to  carry  them  into  operation. 
In  any  case,  the  law  must  decide — my  duty  is  plain. 

"  Now,  you  see,"  said  the  old  man,  between  long 
puffs  at  his  well-lighted  pipe,  "  as  I  told  you,  I  was 
present  when  your  father  took  the  will  of  Arthur 
Lovett  from  the  place  Betty  Certain  showed  him,  and 
read  it  over  to  us — Betty  Certain,  Mr.  Dixon,  and  me. 
He  found  it  in  a  sort  of  secret  drawer  that  let 
down  on  hinges,  like  some  of  these  new  trunk-covers, 
on  the  inside  of  the  upper  drawer  of  the  desk. 

"  The  drawer  into  which  this  tray  fell,  when  the 
spring  was  touched,  was  locked,  and  the  key  was  found 
in  Lovett's  pocket.  In  this  drawer  was  found  all  the 
money  he  is  supposed  to  have  had  in  his  possession  at 
the  time  of  his  death — something  to  the  rise  of  two  hun- 
dred dollars — and  the  only  two  notes  that  he  is  known 
to  have  held  against  any  one — one  of  these  was  against 
an  insolvent  party,  and  the  other  has  been  collected  by 
the  administrator,  and  amounted  to  some  three  or  four 
hundred   dollars  more.     His   accounts  with   his   factors 


IN  THE  CLERK'S  OFFICE.  235 

in  Richmond,  check-book  and  bills  of  sale  for  all  of 
his  slaves,  were  in  this  drawer,  neatly  tied  and  filed,  as 
well  as  a  great  many  other  papers  whose  value  might 
be  a  question.  These  seemed  to  be  all  '  the  valuable 
papers  and  effects  '  that  he  had,  and  I  have  not  heard 
that  any  others  have  ever  been  discovered.  In  the 
upper  or  secret  drawer  there  was  no  other  paper,  ex- 
cept a  sealed  package  directed  to  the  gal  Bella  that  he 
was  so  bewitched  about — by  the  by,  she  was  a  most 
remarkable  nigger,  and  if  any  one  was  ever  excusable 
for  such  foolishness,  it  was  Arthur  Lovett.  There  were 
some  little  trinkets  also  in  it,  but  nothing  of  any  value. 
The  place  for  a  signature  and  a  scrawl  seal,  as  well  as 
an  attestation  clause,  showed  that  he  intended  to  have 
executed  it  formally  before  witnesses,  and,  I  am  inclined 
to  think,  that  was  the  business  he  wanted  to  see  me 
about  the  morning  of  his  marriage. 

"The  woman.  Certain,  claimed  that  he  had  told  her 
that  was  his  intention,  the  night  before.  I  never  knew 
how  much  reliance  to  put  in  what  that  woman  said 
about  the  matter,  or  anyone  else,  in  fact.  There  is 
one  thing,  she  was  certainly  clear  of  all  suspicion  of 
having  caused  his  death,  for  all  her  interest  depended 
on  his  living  to  execute  the  will  at  least ;  and,  for  aught  I 
can  see,  afterward  too ;  for  the  place  of  Arthur  Lovett 's 
wife  was  one  she  might  well  be  proud  of,  even  with 
the  incumbrance  of  the  gal,  Bella,  who,  by  the  way,  had 
before  that  been  sold  by  his  father's  executors,  and 
gone,  no  one  knew  where 

"  Your  father  got  me  to  try  and  trace  her  up, 
but   I   never   could   get   beyond   the   day  of  sale  itself. 


22 G  A  I^OYAL  GENTLEMAiW 

I  went  to  N ,  where  the  sale  took  place,  and  after 

some  inquiry  found  that  the  man  '  Edwards,'  whom  the 
sale-list  filed  in  the  Clerk's  office  showed  to  have  bought 
the  gal  Bella,  was  a  poor,  no-account  cuss  that  lived  in 
the  pines  some  four  or  five  miles  out.  Of  course,  every- 
body knew  that  he  never  had  money  enough  in  his 
life  to  buy  half  as  likely  a  nigger  as  this  gal,  Bella,  and 
consequently,  that  he  must  have  acted  for  some  one 
else. 

"  I  learned  that  when  the  girl  was  knocked  off 
to  him  at  the  sale,  some  one  made  the  remark  that 
he  was  not  good  for  the  price,  and  the  executor 
told  him  that  he  would  be  required  to  give  undoubt- 
ed security.  But  he  stepped  up  and  said  he  didn't 
want  any  credit,  and  just  paid  the  cash  in  hand  for  the 
gal  and  took  her  off  before  the  sale  was  over.  I  in- 
quired of  some  of  the  man's  neighbors  how  long  he 
kept  her,  and  was  surprised  to  learn  that  he  had 
never  been  known  to  have  a  slave  at  all,  nor  would 
they  believe  that  such  was  the  case.  He  was  just  a 
poor  cracker-cuss,  hardly  better  than  a  nigger  himself. 

"  I  took  occasion  to  go  by  his  house,  and  called  for 
a  drink  of  water — if  the  flat,  warm,  swamp-settlings  they 
drink  there  can  be  called  water.  His  wife  came  out 
with  a  gourd  and  piggin,  both,  I  must  allow,  clean  and 
tidy,  which  is  more   than  I  could    possibly  say  of  her. 

"  She  was  a  big,  gaunt  woman,  who  wore  about  No. 
9  shoes,  and  stood  with  hands  on  her  hips  while  I 
drank  and  talked.  In  return  for  the  water,  I  offered 
her  a  drink  of  whisky  from  my  flask.  She  finished  a 
good  bit  of  it,   and  in  response  to  a  question  said  she 


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IN  THE  CLERK'S  OFFICE.  227 

had  no  'terbacker,'  but  had  some  of  the  best  '  rozzum  * 
one  ever  stuck  a  tooth  in.  As  I  had  never  learned  to 
like  rosin,  I  did  not  find  whether  this  was  true  or  not. 
When  I  thought  I  had  put  myself  on  terms  with  her 
to  entitle  me  to  do  so,  I  broached  the  subject  of  the 
nigger.  She  seemed  completely  dumbfounded,  but  I, 
thinking  it  was  all  put  on — for  I  was  now  satisfied  that 
her  husband  was  made  an  agent  simply  to  conceal  the 
real  buyer — put  my  foot  in  the  soup  by  asking  her  finally, 
straight  out,  what  had  become  of  the  nigger  gal  her 
husband  brought  home  and  kept  for  a  spell. 

"  Do  n't  you  ever  make  such  a  mistake  as  that, 
Geoffrey ! 

"  The  woman  flew  up  in  a  minute.  She  said  she 
would  have  me  know  that  Susan  Edwards  was  n't  one 
of  that  sort.  She  did  n't  harbor  anybody's  runaway 
niggers  in  her  house ;  and  if  her  husband  ever  brought 
any  black  sluts  around  there,  she  'd  h'ist  'em,  that  she 
would — and  she  'd  h'ist  me,  too,  if  I  did  n't  make  off 
about  my  business  ;  and  with  that,  before  I  could  turn 
my  horse  in  his  tracks,  she  threw  that  piggin  of  wa- 
ter over  me,  gourd  and  all.  The  last  I  saw  of  Mrs. 
Susan  Edwards,  she  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
road,  holding  her  empty  piggin,  sticking  her  black 
fangs  into  that  good  'rozzum,'  and  cussing  about  the 
worst  soaked  '  stranger '  that  ever  run  from  a  she- 
cracker.  Well,  I  found  Mr.  Edwards  himself  afterwards, 
and  with  a  deal  of  difficulty  and  not  a  little  good  whisky, 
got  him  to  tell  me  what  he  knowed,  which  was  n't  much 
after  all.  It  seems  a  man  had  come  to  him  that 
morning  and  got  him  to  bid  for  the  woman,  and  per- 


228  A  ROYAL  gentleman; 

haps  one  or  both  of  the  children,  and  handed  him  the 
money  to  pay  for  them,  taking  care  to  keep  him  in 
sight  till  the  purchase  was  complete.  That  night  he 
met  the  gentleman  at  a  low  sort  of  eating-house  in 
the  town,  who  paid  him  for  his  trouble  one  hundred 
dollars  in  bank-bills,  and  as  much  whisky  as  Mr.  Ed- 
wards could  comfortably  dispose  of,  which,  if  I  may 
judge  by  what  I  saw  of  him,  was  a  right  smart  fee  in 
itself.  He  said  that  the  stranger  made  out  the  bill  of 
sale,  and  he  signed  it ;  but  could  not  remember  his 
name  or  where  he  was  from.  Had  an  idea  that  he 
belonged  in  Alabama;  but  did  not  know  why.  Said 
that  he  spoke  of  '  toting '  things  to  the  stage-house, 
as  he  was  going  away  that  night,  so  I  gave  up  the 
idea  of  his  being  an  Alabamian,  who  would  have  said 
'*  pack  '  instead  of  '  tote  ' ;  and  I  could  never  get  on  the 
track  of  the  gal  or  the  buyer  after  that,  though  your 
father  kept  me  at  it  for  the  best  part  of  a  year,  when- 
ever I  could  be  spared  from  the  office.  He  always 
insisted  that  this  fellow  Edwards  bought  her  for  Buck 
Lloyd,  and  would  have  me  go  to  attend  the  Adminis- 
trator's sale  of  his  property,  to  see  if  I  could  not  learn 
something  of  the  gal;  and  'twas  there  I  bought  his 
cook,  Mabel.  It  must  have  cost  him  right  smart  first 
and  last — his  search  after  that  girl  and  her  children — 
and  I  never  knew  rightly  what  he  did  it  for.  I  never 
thought  he  was  foolish  enough  to  want  to  get  them 
just  to  free  them,  even  if  Arthur  Lovett  was  his 
friend  and  very  anxious  about  the  matter.  Manuel 
Hunter  was  never  the  man  to  indulge  in  any  senti- 
mentality at  such  a  cost  to  himself." 


IN  THE  CLERK'S  OFFICE,  229 

"  My  father  has  been  a  man  of  much  more  tender 
susceptibilities  than  many  suppose,"  said  Geoffrey,  sen- 
tentiously. 

"Now,  look  here,  Geoffrey,  don't  fly  off  in  that  way," 
said  the  old  clerk,  his  eyes  sparkling  with  humor. 
"  Every  one  knows  that  a  man  who  had  his  own  way  to 
make  in  the  world,  and  made  it  as  your  father  did, 
did  n't  go  about  throwing  his  money  away  on  other 
people's  whims.  No,  sir ;  he  had  some  reason  of  his 
own  for  wanting  to  get  hold  of  that  gal.  Of  course  it 
was  n't  the  same  reason  that  Lovett  had  for  not  want- 
ing to  let  her  go,  for,  in  that  case,  he  would  not  have 
been  so  anxious  about  her  children.  Now,  Geoffrey, 
can  you  imagine  why  your  father  should  want  to  own 
that  woman  and   her  children.^" 

"  I  think  he  had  a  very  laudable  desire  to  carry 
out  the  wishes  of  an  unfortunate  friend,"  said  Geoffrey. 

"Oh,  I  thought  we  had  disposed  of  that  before," 
said  Rawson.  "  He  was  not  the  man  for  that.  It's  true 
he  did  free  the  boy  when  he  got  him — or  said  he  did. 
I  was  never  quite  sure  of  it." 

"I  have  seen  a  copy  of  the  record,"  said  Geoffrey, 
angrily. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Rawson,  "I  won't  deny  it;  but  do 
you  know  what  bargain  he  made  with  him,  before  he 
turned  him  loose  .^" 

"I  am  sure  I  do  not,"  said  Geoffrey.  "In  fact  I  do 
not  see  how  he  could  have  made  any.  A  contract  to 
pay  for  an  intended  liberation  would  not  be  good,  nor 
any  other  agreement  made  with  a  slave." 

"  Oh,  of  course  not,"  said  the  other.     "  But  did  you 


230  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN', 

never  hear  or  know  of  any  contract  or  release  executed 
by  the  boy?" 

"  It  is  simply  impossible  that  there  should  have  been 
anything  of  the  kind." 

"  Of  course  the  boy  was  then  a  minor,  and  any  bar- 
gain with  him  would  have  been  worthless — but  it  may 
have  been  done  since." 

"  Mr.  Rawson,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  I  have  the  utmost 
confidence  in  the  belief  that  my  father  liberated  this 
boy  simply  because  it  was  his  friend's  dying  wish  he 
should  be  set  free.     In  fact,  I  know  it." 

"Pshaw,  pshaw,  my  son;  haven't  you  got  over  that 
yet .''  Why,  then,  did  he  not  manumit  Toinette,  as  he 
promised  your  mother  to  do,  when  she  was  dying,  in- 
stead of  giving  her  to  you  to  re-enact  the  tragedy  or 
comedy,  whatever  you  call  it,  of  '  Arthur  and  his  gal 
Bella'  at  Lovett  Lodge?" 

"  Stop,  Mr.  Rawson,"  said  Geoffrey,  rising  ;  "  I  cannot 
permit  you  to  speak  thus  of  my  father,  who  is  now  so 
stricken  by  disease  as  to  be  the  same  as  in  the  tomb, 
so  far  as  the  defense  of  his  own  acts  is  concerned." 

"  Sit  down,  sir,  sit  down,"  said  Rawson,  severely. 
"  I  am  too  old  for  you  to  gain  anything  by  quarreling 
with  me  ;  besides,  every  one  knows  that  George  Rawson 
owed  your  father  too  much  good  will,  before  you  were 
born,  ever  to  speak  of  him  with  unnecessary  harshness. 
And  I  must  say,  young  man,  that  if  his  son  had  half 
the  sense  his  poor  father  has  lost,  he  would  know  that 
he  was  disgracing  his  father  far  more  by  openly  living 
with  that  girl,  than  I  could  if  I  were  to  talk  slanders 
of  him  all  the  time.     Manuel  Hunter  was  too  proud,  as 


IN  THE  CLERK'S  OFFICE.  231 

well  as  too  good,  a  man,  ever  to  have  brought  shame 
upon  his  family  in  that  way." 

"You  judge  me  harshly,  Mr.  Rawson,"  said  Geoffrey, 
flushing  nevertheless. 

"Well,  well,  that  's  none  of  my  business,  of  course," 
said  the  old  man  in  a  pacificatory  tone ;  "  but  you  pro- 
voked me  a  little  by  thinking  that  I  could  slander  your 
father.  But  we  were  talking  about  his  motive  in  want- 
ing to  get  these  Lovett  niggers.  I  've  thought  of  it  a 
good  deal,  but  asked  no  questions.  Your  father  knew 
me  well  enough  to  know  that  I  would  do  his  business 
without  meddling  with  his  reasons.  Nevertheless,  I 
am  satisfied  that  he  had  reasons  of  his  own,  and  as  he 
is  now  past  telling  them  and  you  are  the  one  interested 
— at  least  having  the  same  interest  that  he  had,  or  will 
have,  under  your  father's  will  afore  many  a  day — I  will 
tell  you  what  I  think  they  were,  and  it  's  my  opinion  it 
will  pay  Manuel  Hunter's  heir  to  listen  and  remember 
too!" 

He  then  gave  Geoffrey  a  detailed  account  of  the 
relation  which  Belle  and  her  children  sustained  to  the 
Lovett  Lodge  property  through  the  deed  of  trust  made 
in  her  behalf  to  Arthur,  of  which  the  reader  is  already 
informed. 

At  its  conclusion  Geoffrey  informed  him  that  he 
had  been  made  aware  of  these  facts  by  his  father,  and 
had  that  morning  come  to  his  office  to  examine  the 
records  in  regard  to  the  matter,  and  he  would  be  glad 
if  Mr.   Rawson  would  assist  him. 

"Wait,  wait,"  said  the  old  clerk,  somewhat  pettish- 
ly, "  I  am  not  through  yet.      Wait  and  hear  all  that  I 


232  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

have  to  say.  You  can  examine  the  records  afterwards. 
No,  no;  fill  up  and  sit  down,"  he  continued,  as  Geoffrey 
again  pleaded  haste  and  business. 

"  As  I  said  before,  you  are  not  likely  to  have  more 
important  business,  as  Manuel  Hunter's  trustee  and 
heir,  for  many  a  day,  than  listening  to  me  about  this 
Lovett  matter. 

"I  have  already  told  you,"  he  continued,  when 
Geoffrey  had  done  as  he  had  bidden,  "  how  this  holo- 
graph script,  purporting  to  be  Arthur  Lovett's  will,  was 
found.  At  that  time  I  do  n't  suppose  any  one  had  an 
idea  that  it  could  by  any  possibility  be  established  as 
such.  I  know  your  father  had  not,  or  his  course  would 
have  been  different,  for  he  had  not  only  been  Lovett's 
counsel,  but  was  his  best  friend.  There  seemed  to  be 
a  strange  attraction  about  the  shy  and  peculiar  young 
Lovett  for  the  hard-headed,  busy  old  lawyer,  your  fa- 
ther. The  recreation  he  seemed  most  to  enjoy  was  a 
half  day's  chat  with  Lovett  in  his  library. 

"  I  never  could  imagine  what  they  found  to  talk 
about;  but  they  were  certainly  great  cronies,  which  was 
the  more  remarkable  from  the  fact  that  your  father 
had  very  few  intimates  and  favored  associates.  He 
lived  in  his  business — that  's  how  he  came  to  succeed 
so  well.  I  'm  mightily  affeard  his  son  won't  keep  up  his 
reputation. 

"  But  that  's  neither  here  nor  there.  I  was  speaking 
of  this  will.  Your  father  had  no  idea  it  could  be  sus- 
tained, and  as  the  only  parties  interested  in  it  were 
Bella  and  her  children,  who  I  do  n't  suppose  ever  heard 
of  it,  and  could  have  done  nothing  if  they  had,  and 


IN  THE  CLERK'S  OFFICE.  233 

this  woman,  Betty  Certain,  who  was  ignorant  of  the  mat- 
ter, and  who,  I  must  admit,  did  not  seem  to  care  any- 
thing about  the  property  now  that  Lovett  was  dead, 
it  was  never  offered  for  probate,  and  nothing  was  ever 
done  about  it. 

"  I  remember  that  the  only  question  Betty  Certain 
asked  of  your  father  was,  whether  there  was  no  way  by 
which  Lovett's  wishes  in  regard  to  the  gal  and  her 
children  could  be  carried  out.  She  did  n't  seem  to 
think  a  word  about  herself.  Your  father  said  he  would 
do  all  he  could.  I  asked  him  before  the  administra- 
tion was  granted  in  the  estate  whether  he  was  going 
to  offer  the  will  for  probate.  He  replied  that  he  had 
looked  the  matter  over  carefully,  and  was  satisfied  that 
it  did  not  come  under  the  statute,  not  being  found 
among  the  valuable  papers  and  effects  of  the  deceased, 
and  it  was  useless  to  incur  unnecessary  expense  on  ac- 
count of  it.  I  agreed  with  him  then,  thinking  him 
entirely  right,  as  he  was  mighty  apt  to  be  on  a  matter 
of  law  that  he  looked  into  carefully.  Right  lately, 
however,  I  've  taken  to  thinking  the  other  way.  You 
may  not  have  seen  it ;  but  the  Supreme  Court  at  its 
last  term  decided  a  case  as  near  upon  all  fours  with 
this  as  one  could  well  be.  I  have  received  the  volume 
within  a  week  or  two — which,  by  the  way,  is  shockingly 
printed — and  have  read  the  case  three  or  four  times 
very  carefully.  I  can  't  see  how  a  case  could  be  made 
to  fit  this  closer.  There  were  two  drawers  without 
locks,  but  having  a  common  cover  fastened  with  one. 
In  one  of  these  was  the  valuable  papers,  money,  etc.,  of 
the  deceased,  and  in  the  other  the  will  with  some  loose 

16 


23-i  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

papers  of  no  account.  Now  they  say  that  the  fact  of 
their  being  under  one  common  lock  justifies  the  con- 
clusion that  these  two  drawers  may  be  taken  as  one, 
and  constitute  a  proper  depository  for  a  holograph  will 
imder  the  statute. 

"  The  case  of  Arthur  Lovett's  will,  to  my  mind,  is 
quite  a  bit  stronger  than  this.      Don't  you  think  so.?" 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  answered  Geoffrey,  absently. 

"And  if  that  will  should  be  proved,"  said  the  old 
man,  with  a  little  surprise  at  Geoffrey's  demeanor  in 
his  tone,  "  what  do  you  think  your  title  to  Lovett 
Lodge  would  be  good  for?" 

"  Not  much,  certainly,"  said  Geoffrey,  quietly. 

"Not  much.?  Not  much.?"  said  Rawson,  excitedly. 
"It  wouldn't  be  worth  the  paper  it's  written  on!" 

"Of  course  not,"  assented  Geoffrey. 

"Well,  I  must  say  you  take  it  quietly  for  one  who 
has  a  smart  chance  of  losing  a  fine  estate.  Now,  do 
you  know  what  I  am  going  to  do  in  this  matter.? 
You  reminded  me  a  while  ago  that  circumstances 
could  not  affect  duty.  I  am  going  to  apply  that  idea 
now,  and  if  your  ox  is  gored,  you  must  remember  it  is 
your  own  bull  that  did  it.  I  am  going  to  inform 
Betty  Certain  of  the  facts  I  have  just  told  you." 

"  That  is  evidently  your  duty,  Mr.  Rawson,"  said 
Geoffrey,  "  though  I  shall  do  it  myself,  probably  before 
you  have  an  opportunity." 

"  That 's  right,  my  son ;  that 's  right.  I  see  you  've 
got  some  of  your  old  father's  shrewdness,  for  all  you've 
kept  still  so  long.  By  all  means  see  her  and  make 
the  best  bargain  you  can  in  the  matter." 


IN  THE  CLERK'S  OFFICE.  235 

Geoffrey  smiled.  "Will  you  loan  me  this  volume?" 
said  he,  pointing  to  the  one  Rawson  had  referred  to. 

"  Certainly.  The  case  is  Robertson  et  al.  vs.  Carter 
and  Others,  page  592,"  Rawson  answered. 

Geoffrey  bade  him  good  morning,  and  went  out. 

"Ah!"  said  the  old  clerk,  looking  after  him,  "  there  's 
a  heap  of  come-out  in  the  Hunter  stock  yet." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE    HOLOGRAPH    PROVED. 

GEOFFREY  HUNTER  was  as  good  as  his  word. 
He  examined  the  case  which  the  clerk  had  re- 
ferred to,  and  compared  it  with  the  provisions  of  the 
statute  on  which  the  will  depended  for  validity.  By 
this  it  was  provided  that  a  will  might  be  established 
and  be  valid  to  convey  real  and  personal  property,  al- 
though not  executed  in  the  presence  of  witness,  if 
certain  requisites  were  complied  with.     These  were : 

I  St.  That  it  must  be  wholly  in  the  handwriting  of 
the  person  whose  will  it  appears  to  be,  being  thence 
denominated  a  holograph. 

2d.  The  name  of  the  testator  must  be  subscribed 
thereto  or  inserted  in  some  part  of  the  will. 

3d.  It  must  be  found  among  the  valuable  papers 
and  effects  of  the  deceased,  or  have  been  lodged  in  the 
hands  of  some  person  for  safe-keeping. 

After  this  comparison  he  was  surprised  that  there 
could  ever  have  been  a  doubt  as  to  the  validity  of  the 
will  now  in  his  possession.  There  evidently  could  not 
have  been  but  for  the  very  narrow  construction  previ- 
ously given  to  the  clause,  "  among  the  valuable  papers 
and  eifects  "  of  the  testator.  This,  having  been  found 
in  the  secret  drawer,  was  effectually  separated  from  all 
his  valuables.     The  very  just  and  reasonable  construe- 


THE  HOLOGRAPH  PROVED.  237 

tion  which  was  applied  in  the  case  last  before  the  Court 
removed  all  doubt. 

That  very  evening  he  went  to  the  humble  dwell- 
ing of  Betty  Certain,  and  informed  her  of  the  facts  he 
had  learned  from  Rawson  and  explained  their  probable 
results.  He  added,  that  after  having  himself  read  the 
case,  and  carefully  examined  the  subject,  he  had  no 
doubt  that  if  she  offered  the  will  for  probate  it 
would  be  sustained,  and  she  would  be  allowed  to 
qualify  as  Executrix.  He  farther  stated  that  as  there 
seemed  little  probability  of  the  discovery  of  Belle  and 
her  younger  children,  a  large  portion  of  the  estate 
would  revert  to  her.  The  information  did  not  seem 
to  elate  the  woman  at  all.  Poor  white  as  she  was,  she 
listened  calmly,  and  only  remarked  that  she  had  always 
believed  that  Arthur's  will  in  regard  to  Belle  and  her 
children  would  some  time  be  carried  out. 

"  You  see,  Mr.  Geoffrey,"  she  said,  "  I  believe  that 
Arthur  Lovett  sincerely  repented  the  sin  and  weakness 
of  his  course  toward  the  gal  Belle,  and  earnestly  desired 
to  make  all  reparation  in  his  power  and  avoid  further 
error.  That  is  why  he  would  have  married  me.  He 
was  not  a  man  to  break  his  plighted  faith,  however 
weak  he  might  have  been  in  other  respects.  He  want- 
ed a  wife,  in  order  that  his  vows  to  her  might  free  him 
from  a  temptation  he  could  not  otherwise  resist.  He 
chose  also  to  marry  me  because  he  could  thereby  dis- 
charge what  he  regarded  as  a  debt  toward  me,  though 
I  did  not.  I  knew  or  felt  this,  in  a  dim  sort  of  way, 
when  he  said  to  me,  *  Betty  Certain,  will  you  be  my 
wife?'  but  I  have  seen  it  clearer  since  he  died.     And 


238  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

I  could  not  but  believe  that  the  good  God  would  re- 
member the  prayer  of  one  who  was  striving  so  earnestly 
to  do  right.     Now  I  see  that   He  has. 

"  But,"  she  continued,  after  a  moment's  thought, 
''  how  will  this  affect  you  1  Will  you  not  lose  what 
your  father  paid  for  Lovett  Lodge  .'^" 

Geoffrey  admitted  that  this  would  be  the  result. 

"  Then,"  said  she,  "  I  will  repay  you  out  of  such 
portion  of  the  estate  as  falls  to  my  share." 

Geoffrey  protested  that  his  father  had  bought  it  as 
a  speculation  with  his  eyes  open,  and  that  he  could 
claim  no  reparation  if  he  lost.  Betty  Certain  would 
not  hear  a  word  of  it.  The  poor  white  woman  was 
determined  that  it  should  be  as  she  decided,  or  she 
would  not  move  in  the  matter  at  all.  So  the  young 
aristocrat  became  the  object  of  her  magnanimity,  and 
it  was  arranged  that  she  should  repay  the  purchase 
money,  and  that  the  profits  of  the  plantation  and  his 
improvements  should  offset  the  rents  during  his  occu- 
pancy, should  the  will  be  established  and  the  pur- 
chase money  not  be  recovered  from  the  heirs  of  Lovett. 

The  necessary  legal  steps  were  soon  taken  under 
Geoffrey's  advice.  The  heirs,  seeing  that  the  case  was 
hopeless  for  them,  compromised  upon  terms  very  favor- 
able to  themselves,  and  the  will  was  shortly  afterwards 
admitted  to  probate,  and  Betty  Certain,  as  Executrix 
of  the  will  of  Arthur  Lovett,  became  the  rightful  pos- 
sessor of  Lovett  Lodge. 

Toinette  had  some  time  before  bidden  adieu  to  her 
kind  old  friend  Betty  Certain,  and  had  been  staying 
with  her  mother  at  the  Hunter  Home,  awaiting  the  term 


THE  HOLOGRAPH  PROVED.  239 

of  Court  at  which  her  emancipation  was  to  be  com- 
pleted. 

Her  reception  by  old  Mabel  was  very  peculiar — 
a  sort  of  tender  pity,  united  with  cold  sneering  un- 
belief in  the  professed  intentions  of  their  young  master, 
marked  her  conversation  and  demeanor. 

"  Do  n't  set  yer  heart  on  freedom,  pore  chile,"  she 
would  say,  "  cos  Geoffrey  Hunter  won't  never  part  with 
ez  likely  a  gal  ez  you  in  no  such  way.  Do  n't  believe 
a  word  of  it,  honey.  He  's  jes'  telling  you  that  to  fool 
ye,  and  git  ye  to  go  'way  with  him  peaceably,  that 's 
all ;  an'  directly  when  he  get  's  ye  off  you  '11  find  your- 
self belonging  to  somebody  else,  an'  Mass'r  Geoffrey 
coming  home  with  the  money  ye  brought  in  his  pocket. 
He  's  jes'  got  tired  of  ye — wants  to  marry  likely,  or 
else  wants  to  put  ye  off  before  a  baby  in  yer  arms 
spoils  yer  market. 

"  Wants  the  child  born  free,  ye  say }  What  does 
he  care  for  the  child  of  my  Toinette .?  If  he  did  n't 
want  a  slave  child,  what  did  he  ruin  a  slave  girl  for.? 
Answer  me  that.  Oh,  you  poor  innocent!  I  know 
how  it  is.  The  lying,  deceitful  villain  has  made  you 
love  him  better  than  your  own  soul.  You  would  rather 
be  a  slave  all  your  life,  and  bear  slave-children  too,  if 
he  would  but  love  ye,  than  go  away  and  be  as  free  as 
he  promises.     Now,  isn't  it  so,  chile.?" 

Toinette  hung  her  head,  and  between  blushes  and 
sobs  admitted  that  it  was  true. 

"  My  pore,  pore  child,"  said  old  Mabel  vehemently, 
as  she  took  her  in  her  arms,  "don't  do  it!  Don't 
trust  to  your  pore,  weak  heart,  nor  the  word  of  any 


240  ^  ROYAL  GENTLEMAISf, 

man  that  owns  a  slave.  Your  old  mother  did  that 
when  she  was  young  and  pure,  and  almost  as  fair  as 
you.  She  believed  a  man  whose  lightest  word  was 
better  than  the  oath  of  any  Hunter  that  ever  lived ;  and 
yet  he  lied  to  her,  basely  and  vilely  deceived  her. 
Yes,  he  sold  me  for  gold  when  I  had  borne  him  chil- 
dren, shared  his  toils  and  evils,  and  loved  him  better 
than  all  else  in  Heaven  and  earth.  Yes,  honey,  you 
are  his  child — you  have  his  features  more  than  mine, 
and  his  ways  too. 

"  Oh,  I  loved  him,  chile,  better  than  my  own  soul. 
I  thought  his  promises  were  truer  than  the  Word  of 
God ;  yet  he  sold  me — who  had  suffered  and  borne  for 
him  more  than  the  most  devoted  wdfe  could — sold  me 
for  gold,  sold  me  on  the  block  with  you  in  my  arms, 
darling !  He  was  as  false  as  the  hell  to  which  he  w^ent. 
So  are  they  all,  Geoffrey  Hunter  among  them.  Do  n't 
tell  me;  I  know,  chile.  An'  now,  when  I'  m  growing 
old,  I  have  to  wear  this  cursed  badge,"  tearing  the 
turban  from  her  head,  "  and  serve  in  the  Hunter  kitchen, 
and  watch  my  darling,  the  last  of  all  my  children,  go- 
ing the  same  hard  road  of  sorrow,  suffering,  and  crime- 
It  has  made  me  a  devil,"  she  added  wildly.  "  God 
knows  what  it  will  do  for  you. 

"  But  remember  this,  honey.  If  Geoffrey  Hunter 
does  serve  you  in  that  way,  he  shan't  ever  enjoy  the 
gold  you  bring  him.  Your  old  mother  '11  look  out  for  that. 
She  has  been  wronged,  but  she  's  been  revenged  too,  an' 
Geoffrey  Hunter '11  find  that  old  Mabel  knows  how  to 
pay  him  back  all  the  wrong  he  does  her  Toinette." 

Toinette  shuddered,  as  the  long,  gray  hair  of  her 


THE  HOLOGRAPH  PROVED.  241 

mother,  unloosed  by  the  removal  of  the  turban,  flowed 
free  about  her  shoulders — and  gazed  with  a  startled 
look  of  doubting  fear  at  the  weird  figure  before  her. 
She  seemed  to  be  trying  to  recall  some  frightful  memory. 

Old  Mabel  caught  the  look,  and  seemed,  for  a  mo- 
ment, to  hesitate  as  to  the  course  she  should  pursue. 
Her  eyes  lost  their  wild  gleam,  and  she  gazed  thought- 
fully and  tenderly  upon  her  child. 

"  Not  yet,  not  yet  " — she  muttered,  and  winding  the 
long  gray  locks  about  her  head,  she  replaced  the  turban, 
remarking,  "  They  were  not  always  gray,  Toinette,  and 
it  is  not  age  that  has  made  them  so  now." 

She  busied  herself  with  her  work  for  a  time,  and 
then  said : 

"We  will  not  say  anything  more  about  these  things 
now,  Toinette,  only  promise  me  one  thing,  child  :  When 
you  go  away,  you  must  write  to  me.  You  can  do  that. 
No  matter  where  you  are  sold,  you  can  get  a  chance  to 
write  to  me,  or  have  some  one  do  it  for  you.  Send  the 
letter  in  care  of  old  George  Rawson.  He  will  read  it 
to  me — remember  that.  The  slave-girl  must  not  be 
able  to  read  or  write.  If  Geoffrey  Hunter  does  by  you 
according  to  his  promise,  sign  your  letter  'Toinette.' 
If  he  does  not,  sign  it  '  Antoinette,'  and  then,  no  matter 
what  else  you  may  write,  old  iMabel  will  know  what 
to  do." 

Toinette  gave  the  required  promise,  and  then  re- 
lapsed into  abstraction.  Old  Mabel  observed  it,  and, 
with  evident  anxiety  to  divert  her  thoughts,  she  said : 

"  But  who  will  have  charge  at  Lovett  Lodge  now 
that  Mass'r  Geoffrey  is  going  away  .''" 


242  A  ROYAL   GENTLEMAN. 

"Why,  haven't  you  heard?"  answered  Toinette. 
She  then  informed  her  mother  of  the  recent  occur- 
rences, by  which  Lovett  Lodge  had  passed  into  the 
hands  of  Betty  Certain,  under  the  will  of  Arthur  Lov- 
ett. 

"Betty  Certain!  Betty  Certain!"  said  old  Mabel, 
when  she  had  heard  the  whole  story,  with  Toinette's 
warm  praises  of  her  old  friend.  "  Betty  Certain,  a  low- 
down,  scheming,  poor  white  woman,  queening  it  at 
Lovett  Lodge !  She  has  rare  luck  indeed !  She  has 
been  working  for  that  this  many  a  year,  and  has  finally 
got  it.     She  carries  a  high  hand,  no  doubt.?" 

Toinette  hastened  to  assure  her,  that,  on  the  con- 
trary, Betty  Certain  did  not  seem  at  all  elated  by  her 
good  fortune,  but  only  anxious  to  discover  Belle  Lovett 
and  her  children,  that  she  might  carry  out  the  will  of 
Arthur  Lovett. 

"  No  doubt,  child,  but  she  pretends  so,  and  no 
wonder  that  you  believe  her.  She  was  always  a  com- 
plete hypocrite.  She  is  no  doubt  anxious  to  find  Belle 
Lovett  and  her  children — not  to  set  them  free  and 
give  them  half  that  estate,  but  to  make  sure  that  they 
never  get  free  at  all,  so  that  she  can  keep  the  whole." 

Toinette  warmly  protested  against  this  aspersion  of 
the  motives  of  her  old  friend,  but  in  vain.  Old  Mabel 
still  shook  her  head  incredulously,  and  declared  that  she 
"knew  Betty  Certain.  She  couldn't  fool  her."  "And 
that  reminds  me,"  she  said,  "  that  there  is  one  thing 
more  I  ought  to  do.  I  have  been  hesitating  about  it 
for  some  time;  but  now  my  mind  is  made  up." 

She  went   to   the   hearth    of  the    kitchen,   and  after 


THE  HOLOGRAPH  PROVED.  043 

some  trouble  took  up  one  of  the  bricks.  After  dig- 
ging for  a  moment  in  the  ground  beneath,  she  took 
out  a  small  tin  box,  and,  opening  this,  selected  from 
among  its  contents  a  flat  parcel,  carefully  wrapped  in 
a  piece  of  snuff-bladder,  which  had  been  securely  sewed 
around  it.  Replacing  the  box,  she  came  towards  Toi- 
nette,  and  handing  her  the  package,  said : 

"  You  may  have  heard  that  old  Manuel  Hunter 
pretended  that  he  had  found  and  emancipated  Arthur 
and  Belle  Lovett's  oldest  child,  Fred.  I  have  never 
been  right  certain  whether  this  tale  was  true  or  not, 
though  I  heard  him  tell  the  missis  so  when  he  came 
back,  but  I  have  heard  him  lie  to  her  at  other  times, 
and  he  might  have  been  doing  it  then.  He  promised 
her  to  set  my  Toinette  free  as  soon  as  ever  she  died, 
an'  instead  of  that  he  gave  her  to  Mass'r  Geoffrey  for 
a  plaything. 

"But  if  he  did  set  him  free,  and  if  Geoffrey  fulfills 
his  promise  to  you,  you  may  be  able  to  find  this  boy, 
Fred  Lovett.  If  you  can,  do  so,  and  give  him  this 
package,  and  tell  him  to  open  it  in  your  presence.  If 
you  should  learn  of  his  death,  you  may  open  it  yourself. 
By  all  means  keep  it  with  the  utmost  care  till  you  are 
freed,  or  meet  with  Fred.  Let  no  one  know  that  you 
have  it,  and  keep  it  always  about  your  person.  Not 
there,  not  there,"  she  said,  as  she  saw  Toinette  about 
to  put  it  in  her  bosom.  "  Do  you  think  it  would  be 
safe  there  if  you  should  be  put  upon  the  block }  Sew 
it  into  the  folds  of  your  frock,  and  keep  it  as  if  your 
salvation  depended  on  it.  Who  knows  but  it  does.?" 
she  added,  dreamily. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

BOND    GIVEN    AND    COSTS   PAID. 

IT  was  the  eighth  Monday  after  the  first  Monday  in 
September,  and  was  Court  week  in  Perham. 

Geoffrey  Hunter,  sitting  in  the  easy-chair  which  his 
father  had  occupied  so  many  years,  heard  through  the 
open  door  of  the  office,  about  the  hour  of  ten,  the 
voice  of  the  crier,  as  he  proclaimed : 

"  Oyez,  oyez,  all  you  good  people  who  have  any- 
thing to  do  or  to  sue  in  this  Honorable  Superior 
Court  of  Law  and  Equity,  this  day  begun  and  held 
for  the  County  of  Cold  Spring,  come  forward  and  give 
your  attendance  and  you  shall  be  heard." 

Looking  up  at  the  venerable  structure  which  had 
so  long  served  for  the  dispensation  of  justice,  he  saw 
the  rotund  face  of  the  crier  framed  in  a  portion  of  the 
window-sash  from  which  some  mischievous  urchin  had 
broken  the  pane,  beaming  with  good  nature,  self-impor- 
tance, and  the  lurid  effulgence  resulting  from  immemo- 
rial potations  of  apple-jack,  while  his  wheezing,  broken 
tones  went  out  in  the  bright  October  morning  through 
the  sleepy  streets  of  the  village.  The  knots  of  idlers 
heard  it,  and  slowly  wended  their  way  to  the  court- 
house. 

Geoffrey  Hunter  heard  it,  and,  remembering  the 
business  which  of  late  had  so  engrossed   his  attention, 


BOND  GIVEN  AND  COSTS  PAID.  245 

took  from  a  drawer  of  the  table  two  bonds,  which  had 
been  previously  executed,  and  followed  the  crowd  to 
the  place  of  justice. 

Upon  the  first  opportunity  which  presented  itself, 
Geoffrey's  counsel  rose  and  called  the  attention  of  His 
Honor,  the  Presiding  Judge  of  the  Court,  to  the  fact 
that  at  Spring  Term,  1858,  a  petition  had  been  filed 
by  Manuel  Hunter,  praying  for  permission  to  emanci- 
pate a  certain  female  slave,  ''Mabel."  His  Honor  would 
find  the  necessary  facts  set  forth  in  the  petition.  Due 
notice  had  been  given  by  advertisement,  as  required 
by  law,  as  appeared  from  the  certificate  of  the  publisher. 
Since  that  time,  the  petitioner  having  become  "  non 
compos^''  the  guardian  of  his  estate,  who  was  also  his 
son,  desired  to  obtain  leave  of  court  to  complete  the 
act  in  which  the  petitioner  had  taken  the  initiatory 
steps  before  being  stricken  with  disease.  He  was  ready 
to  give  the  necessary  bond  for  the  good  behavior  of  the 
slave  while  in  the  State,  and  her  removal  therefrom 
within  ninety  days,  as  the  statute  required.  The  learned 
counsel  admitted  that  the  application  to  amend  the 
proceedings  by  making  the  guardian  a  party  was  some- 
what anomalous.  He  was  not  aware  of  any  precedent 
directly  in  point.  But  as  the  proceedings  had  been 
begun  before  there  was  any  suspicion  of  intellectual 
decline  on  the  part  of  the  owner,  it  seemed  but  just 
and  proper  that  his  charitable  design  toward  a  servant- 
woman  of  mature  age  and  meritorious  and  faithful  ser- 
vices should  not  be  defeated  by  his  misfortune. 

His  Honor,  having  duly  considered  the  matter,  felt 
constrained  to  deny  the  motion  for  leave  to  emancipate.. 


^46  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAiV. 


He  regretted  that  what  was  apparently  the  will  and 
purpose  of  so  eminent  a  citizen  as  the  petitioner  should 
be  defeated ;  especially,  while  he  suffered  under  such 
terrible  affliction,  which  he  sincerely  hoped  would  yet 
prove  to  be  temporary  in  its  character.  Yet,  in  fact,  it 
was  this  very  affliction,  and  consequent  mental  disability 
of  the  Petitioner,  which  rendered  it  necessary  for  the 
Court  to  deny  the  prayer  of  the  petition.  The  tendency 
of  legislation  and  judicial  decision  was  certainly  adverse 
to  the  emancipation  of  slaves.  The  unfortunate  agita- 
tion of  the  questions  affecting  our  rights  as  citizens  of 
the  Southern  States  to  hold  and  control  our  own 
property,  by  the  Abolitionists  of  the  North,  had  led  to 
the  imposition  of  restrictions  hitherto  unknown  to  our 
law.  The  course  of  these  fanatics,  instead  of  tending 
to  ameliorate  the  condition  or  improve  the  chances  of 
freedom  to  the  slave,  for  whom  they  professed  such  un- 
necessary and  undeserved  sympathy,  had  an  opposite  ef- 
fect, and  he  feared  they  were  doing  much  to  render  this 
sacred  relation  of  master  and  slave  the  evil  thing  they 
chose  to  represent  it.  He  was  sorry  that  restrictive  leg- 
islation had  gone  so  far,  but,  of  course,  retaliatory  meas- 
ures were  but  natural  to  a  people  who  had  been  so 
foully  defamed,  oppressed  and  robbed.  Recent  events, 
in  his  opinion,  presaged  still  further  trouble.  His  Honor 
hoped  if  the  North  persisted  in  her  insane  attempt 
to  force  upon  the  South  a  President  so  obnoxious  to 
her  people  as  the  low-down  fanatical  demagogue  who 
was  striving  for  the  place,  against  the  voice  of  the 
entire  Southern  people — for  he  was  sure  no  Southern 
man  would  vote  for  such  a  creature — that  they  would 


BOXD  GIVEX  AND  COSTS  PAID.  247 

be  taught  that  brave  men  would  not  submit  to  such 
indignity. 

Under  these  circumstances,  and  with  these  views, 
the  court  was  of  opinion  that  the  guardian  of  the  Peti- 
tioner could  not  be  made  a  party,  and  the  manumission 
perfected  under  this  petition.  Emancipation  by  devise 
was  now  forbidden.  His  Honor  thought  this  was  a 
case  coming  within  the  spirit  and  reason  of  that  statute, 
if  not  within  its  terms ;  and  he  did  not  think  that 
emancipation  was  an  act  which  the  courts  ought  to  en- 
courage by  a  too  liberal  construction  of  the  law^s.  Our 
domestic  institutions  would  be  in  great  danger  unless 
protected  by  the  courts. 

In  the  case  of  Geoffrey  petitioning  in  his  own  be- 
half for  permission  to  free  Toinette,  no  such  ground, 
nor,  indeed,  any  reasonable  ground,  could  be  urged 
to  defeat  the  prayer  of  the  Petitioner,  and  it  was 
granted.  Geoffrey  immediately  gave  the  bond  required 
by  law,  paid  the  costs  of  the  proceeding,  and  directed 
a  copy  of  the  record,  duly  certified,  to  be  made  out 
and  furnished  him. 

That  night  he  handed  this  copy  of  the  record  to 
Toinette,  thereby  sundering  the  claim  his  father's  bill- 
of-sale  had  given  him  over  this  "likely  chattel,"  and 
transforming  the  slave-girl  into  the  freed-woman.  The 
interest  he  had  acquired  in  Toinette  by  sale  in  the 
market  overt  of  Love  was  not  so  easily  terminated. 
The  reason  of  the  failure  of  the  application  in  behalf 
of  Mabel  was  duly  explained  to  that  old  worthy,  who 
merely  listened  with  an  incredulous  smile. 

A    week    afterw^ards    Geoffrey    Hunter   left    Perham, 


248  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

having  the  freed-woman  Toinette  in  his  charge,  and 
was  absent  a  month.  When  he  returned  he  brought 
to  old  Mabel  a  letter  from  her  daughter,  dated  at 
Oberlin,  Ohio,  and  signed  "Toinette." 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

A    REVIEW. 

AT  the  date  of  our  last  chapter  the  muttering  thun- 
ders of  approaching  revolution  were  beginning  to 
be  heard  in  the  land«  The  old  Whig  Party  had  been 
shattered  by  the  loss  of  confidence  in  its  leaders  con- 
sequent upon  their  support  of  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law, 
and  acquiescence  in  other  measures  of  a  similar  nature, 
distasteful  to  a  large  majority  of  its  adherents.  The 
avowed  Abolitionists,  as  they  were  called,  of  the  North, 
were  comparatively  few.  Almost  the  entire  mass  of  the 
Northern  people  acquiesced  in  slavery ;  at  the  same  time, 
there  was  a  latent  animosity  toward  the  institution  which 
existed  all  over  the  free  States,  and  embraced,  probably, 
three-fourths  of  their  voting  strength.  In  theory,  these 
men  agreed  with  "the  fanatics,"  that  slavery  was  a  crime 
and  a  wrong,  both  to  the  free  citizen  and  the  slave.  In 
practice,  they  held  with  the  pro-slavery  party,  that  with 
slavery,  in  the  *States  where  it  was  already  established, 
the  General  Government  could  not  interfere.  They  were 
opposed  to  slavery,  but  they  regarded  the  Constitution 
and  the  precedents  and  practice  under  it,  as  legalizing 
the  institution  in  those  States,  and  they  believed  these 
States  alone,  had  the  power  to  abolish  it.  On  the  other 
hand,  too,  it  had  come  generally  to  be  accepted  that  the 
people  of  the  North  could  not  be  compelled  to  aid  in 


250  A   ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

supporting,  defending,  or  propagating  this  institution. 
The  Fugitive  Slave  Law,  and  the  course  adopted  by  the 
Government  towards  the  new  Territory  of  Kansas, 
therefore,  thrust  upon  the  people  of  the  North  the  most 
unwelcome  issues.  The  former  made  every  freeman 
the  agent  of  the  slavery  propagandists,  in  its  support 
and  protection;  it  imposed  upon  everyone  the  duties 
of  a  special  policeman  and  informer,  to  prevent  the  es- 
cape of  slaves  from  a  bondage  which  was  believed  to 
be  unholy  and  infamous,  and  made  him  the  upholder 
of  a  system  which  only  his  reverence  for  the  Constitu- 
tion had  restrained  him  from  destroying.  The  latter 
was  equally  distasteful,  as  it  thrust  slavery,  even  by 
fraud  and  violence,  into  territory  which  had  been  until 
that  day  consecrate  to  freedom.  It  was  the  harpy  claw 
of  slavery  tearing  and  befouling  our  national  domain. 
From  the  moment  the  first  of  these  measures  received 
the  sanction  of  a  Whig  administration,  that  party  was 
doomed,  and  from  that  moment  the  passive  Abolitionists 
were  mainly  transformed  into  active  ones — a  vast  ma- 
jority of  the  North  were  willing  and  anxious  to  do  all 
that  legitimately  could  be  done  to  curb  the  aggressions 
and  destroy  the  power  of  slavery. 

Hence,  the  Republican  Party  and  its  triumph  in  the 
election  of  a  President,  with  a  majority  of  the  members 
of  Congress,  undoubtedly  meant  the  repeal  of  all  this 
peculiarly  odious  legislation;  and  their  zeal,  in  all  prob- 
ability, would  have  gone  further,  much  further,  in  reac- 
tionary legislation. 

The  South  was  right  in  the  claim  that  the  organi- 
zation of  the  Republican  Party,  and  the  nomination  of 


A  REVIEW.  251 

Abraham  Lincoln  for  the  Presidency,  as  well  as  his 
subsequent  election,  meant  hostility  to  slavery.  It 
meant  opposition  by  every  legitimate  means  to  the  sys- 
tem which  had  long  been  a  disgrace  to  our  flag  and  an 
insult  to  every  freeman  of  the  nation.  It  was  the  pro- 
test of  the  people  of  the  North  against  a  great  wrong 
which  they  ]:ad  long  merely  tolerated,  confessing  its 
evil  character  but  pleading  their  own  inability  to  pre- 
vent. The  leaders  of  the  Party  denied  this,  but  the  logic 
of  human  action  affirmed  it. 

When  the  Presidential  nominee  declared,  ''  I  would 
to  God  that  the  foot  of  the  slave  did  not  rest  upon 
American  soil,"  not  only  the  vast  audience  who  listened 
to  him  applauded  the  sentiment  and  said  "amen"  in 
their  hearts,  but  the  great  majority  of  the  North  re- 
echoed it.  And  when  he  added,  "  But,  having  been 
established  and  recognized  by  every  branch  of  our  Gov- 
ernment, I  do  not  see  how  the  General  Government 
can  interfere  with  it  in  the  States  where  it  now  exists," 
the  heart  of  the  free  North  again  beat  responsive  to 
his  words — a  sorrowful  assent.  Politicians  denied  this 
fact,  of  which  they  were  the  creatures,  and  declared 
that  the  North  did  not  desire  the  abolition  of  slavery — 
that  they  only  wanted  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law  repealed 
because  it  invaded  their  own  sacred  rights.  Poor  fools ! 
they  could  not  see  how  the  index  finger  had  moved  on 
the  dial  of  history  since  the  mob  of  Boston  struggled 
and  hustled  each  other  in  her  narrow  lanes  and  alleys, 
raging  in  a  hot  ferment  for  the  blood  of  Garrison  and 
Thomson.  They  had  forgotten  that  thirty  and  odd 
years  had  elapsed — thirty  years  of  growth  and  fruit,  of 


252  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

patient  inquiry  and  close  observation — since  every  mem- 
ber of  the  United  States  Senate,  under  the  lash  and 
spur  of  the  imperial-minded  Calhoun,  vied  with  each 
other  in  their  adulation  of  slavery,  and  in  denunciation 
of  the  seditious  fanatics  who  would  destroy  that  patri- 
archal institution  and  turn  the  course  of  society  from 
the  way  ordained  of  God — winning  thereby  the  applause 
of  the  entire  press,  and  the  approbation  of  a  large  ma- 
jority of  Ihe  people.  They  did  not  recognize  the  grow- 
ing strength  of  the  underlying  feeling  of  Abolitionism — 
the  conviction  of  the  unrighteousness  of  slavery.  They 
did  not  perceive  that  the  logic  of  a  people  wonderfully 
prone  to  question  and  decide  for  themselves,  had  re- 
jected the  absurdity  of  the  human-brute. 

For  eighteen  hundred  years  Christianity  has  striven 
to  make  comprehensible  the  problem  of  the  God-man, 
"Christ  Jesus.  Reason  rejects  the  anomaly.  Religion 
appeals  to  Faith  and  flies  to  the  Holy  of  Holies,  which 
is  veiled  from  vulgar  view  by  the  mystic  formula,  "  I 
believe."  Reason  has  no  weapons  to  oppose  to  this 
unseen  and  intangible  foe.  She  is  stricken  in  the  heel 
and  dies.  Resistance  ceases,  and  the  inquirer  becomes 
a  convert.  No  other  subject  can  stand  upon  this  van- 
tage ground.  Reason  is  omnipotent  except  where  Faith 
is  supreme. 

So,  when  the  touchstone  of  human  reason  was  ap- 
plied to  the  fabric  of  chattel  slavery — property  in  human 
beings — it  fell.  The  mind  may  accept  the  miracle  of 
the  Holy-Child,  but  not  the  abomination  of  the  huiran- 
brute.  Thus  the  problem  presented  itself:  Given  the 
form  of  man,   the  instincts   and  passions  of  man.    the 


A  RE  VIE  IV.  253 

reason  and  soul  of  man,  the  powers  and  attributes  of 
man — what  is  the  creature  ?  And  the  unhesitating 
voice  of  reason  answered — Man.  And  if  man,  what  is 
his  position,  what  his  rights,  privileges,  and  duties,  his 
relations  to  his  fellows  and  to  God  ?  And  again  reason 
answered  in  a  triumphant  tone,  "  Those  of  his  fellow 
mortals,  varying  only  in  degree.  Of  him  to  whom  little 
is  given,  little  shall  be  required." 

Slavery  sought  to  hide  its  deformity  with  the  veil 
of  faith,  and  take  refuge  with  religion  in  the  sanctuary 
of  simple  belief.  It  would  not  do.  Reason  was  jealous 
of  her  attributes,  and  religion  fearful  of  too  much  com- 
panionship in  her  sacred  seclusion.  So  reason  and  re- 
ligion— in  the  main — struck  hands  in  denying  the  claims 
of  slavery. 

Thus  far  had  the  people  walked  in  the  light.  The 
politicians — still  infused  with  the  formularies  of  years 
of  artful  dodging  of  the  momentous  issue — denied  this 
flank  march  which  the  people  had  made  while  they 
slept  in  darkness,  even  when  the  triumphant  hosts  came 
wheeling  into  line  with  shouts  and  banners,  bearing 
onward  to  the  seat  of  power  the  incarnation  of  their 
own  idea,  the  enlightened  conscience  with  the  uncertain 
hand,  the  ready  will  groping  for  a  possible  way — Abra- 
ham Lincoln,  the  clear-eyed,  giant-limbed  child  of  the 
great  North-west. 

The  South  was  not  deceived.  Their  politicians  read 
the  mystic  symbols,  which  the  hands  of  groping  millions 
thus  unconsciously  had  traced,  with  surer  ken  than  their 
brethren  of  the  North.  They  saw  that  it  was  a  por- 
tentous  mustering   of    uncounted   forces   against    their 


254  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

Moloch.  They  only  erred  In  supposing  these  legitimate 
and  unavoidable  consequences  of  their  acts  to  be  con- 
sciously and  immediately  intended  by  their  promoters. 
At  once  they  sounded  the  note  of  alarm  and  prepared 
to  do  battle  for  their  idol — on  the  stump  first,  and  in 
the  field  afterward,  if  need  be — and  among  the  foremost 
and  most  zealous  of  them  all  was  Geoffrey  Hunter. 
His  quick  and  subtle  mind  caught  the  logic  of  these 
events  with  unerring  certainty.  Regarding  slavery,  as 
he  did,  as  both  legally  and  morally  right,  except  in  pe- 
culiar instances,  he  considered  the  course  of  parties 
at  the  North  as  an  unjustifiable  assault  upon  the  con- 
stitutional rights  of  the  Southern  States. 


WASHINGTON    SQUARE— RICHMOND. 

*  Around  this   regal  city  /or  /ozir  years  zvas  to  rage  the  combat  o/  which  it  ivas 

itself  the  JirizeT 


CHAPTER  XXV, 

REVEILLE. 

WHEN  Geoffrey  reached  Richmond  .on  his  return, 
he  found  that  city  and  all  the  country  beyond 
aflame  with  excitement.  The  chain  had  been  severed 
which  bound  the  States  into  one  common  nationality. 
South  Carolina  had  seceded !  Secession,  war,  Southern 
independence,  pro  and  con^  were  the  staples  of  conver- 
sation. As  yet,  it  was  not  clear  that  the  other  States 
would  go  with  the  pioneer  in  revolution.  Experienced 
politicians  were  of  the  opinion  that  they  would  not. 
The  most  influential  journals  were,  as  yet,  uncommitted 
to  the  doctrine  of  rebellion.  Only  the  newsboys,  the 
train-haunters,  and  loungers  about  the  depots  spoke  pos- 
itively upon  this  point.  They  saw  the  tendency  of  feel- 
ing— they  knew  that  nearly  all  they  met  either  favored 
this  movement  or  opposed  it  upon  some  paltry  quibble 
that  was  not  worth  a  moment's  consideration.  It  was 
like  stubble  in  the   pathway  of  the  devouring  flame. 

Through  the  first  hot  blast  of  the  coming  sirocco, 
Geoffrey  Hunter  came  to  his  home.  As  the  fierce 
breath  of  the  desert  storm  scathes  the  lineaments  and 
crisps  the  beard  which  feels  its  wrath,  transforming 
youth  into  maturity  and  manhood  into  age  in  a  few 
brief  seconds,  so  in  these  few  days  did  the  storm  of 
war  bring  out  the  stern,  bold  man  which  had  slumbered 
beneath  the  soft  exterior  of  Geoffrey  Hunter. 


256  ^  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

He  flung  himself  into  the  foremost  rank,  and  with 
tongue  and  pen,  incessantly  and  unweariedly,  urged 
the  appeal  to  arms.  As  the  winter  passed  the  war  of 
ideas  grew  more  fierce,  and  for  a  time  the  result  seemed 
doubtful ;  but  as  the  spring  opened  the  obstacles  were 
one  by  one  removed,  and  before  summer  had  assumed 
her  throne  a  united  South  were  ready  to  do  battle  for 
what  they  counted  as  sacred  rights. 

There  were  some  few  who  thought  the  very  show  of 
force  would  be  sufficient  to  secure  their  object.  Geof- 
frey was  not  of  this  number.  He  knew  that  they  had 
an  enemy  slow  to  anger  and  not  given  to  bravado,  un- 
stinted in  devotion  to  the  views  they  entertained,  fertile 
in  expedients,  unbounded  in  resource,  and  unyielding 
in  purpose.  He  knew  that  the  war,  at  all  events,  must 
be  long  and  bloody,  and  the  issue  doubtful.  His  only 
hope  was  that  by  promptitude  of  movement  the  seat  of 
government,  with  perhaps  one  of  the  great  commercial 
centers  of  the  Atlantic  coast — the  ganglia  of  trade — 
might  be  seized  before  the  huge  leviathan  of  the  North 
could  rouse  himself  to  resist. 

Acting  upon  this  idea,  he  was  one  of  the  first  to 
enlist.  He  was  elected  captain  of  the  Cold  Spring 
Greys,  a  company  of  young  men  every  one  of  whom 
was  worthy  of  a  commission  in  any  well-appointed  army. 
They  were  the  best  scions  of  the  best  stocks  in  the 
country,  the  bravest  sons  of  the  first  families.  The 
young  attorney,  whose  name  alone  —  herited  from  an 
honored  sire — was  a  power  at  the  bar,  stood  side  by 
side  in  the  ranks  with  the  gifted  young  politician  who 
had  risen,  almost  in  a  day,  from  the  dim  obscurity  of 


REVEILLE.  257 

the  academic  grove  to  places  of  honor  and  power. 
Wealth  and  learning,  youth  and  patriotism,  ambition 
and  valor,  were  linked  with  every  name  which  graced 
the  roll  of  the  Cold  Spring  Greys,  with  Geoffrey  Hunter 
at  their  head. 

It  was  strange  how  he  came  to  outrank  all  his 
fellows  at  the  very  first.  It  was  not  because  he  had 
greater  wealth — for  money  could  not  buy  the  suffrages 
of  that  gallant  band — nor  because  he  had  any  advan- 
tages in  position — for  prouder  names  and  more  suc- 
cessful men,  in  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life,  stood  among 
the  undistinguished  rank  and  file. 

It  was  not  even  from  any  greater  inherent  capacity 
for  military  affairs,  for  more  than  one  who  now  tipped 
the  cap  to  him  in  deference,  as  a  superior,  rose  after- 
wards to  wear  more  stars  and  achieve  a  brighter  re- 
nown. It  was  simply  because  Geoffrey  Hunter  was 
gravely  and  seriously  in  earnest.  He  expected  war, 
rugged,  harsh,  red-handed,  cruel,  unrelenting  war,  and 
he  was  ready  for  it.  He  did  not  expect  to  achieve 
fame.  He  did  not  enlist  to  avoid  political  ruin,  or  to 
build  up  a  mole  from  which  to  fight  with  advantage 
the  wordy  conflicts  of  the  hustings,  in  the  future.  He 
had  no  ulterior  motives.  He  did  not  go  into  the  war 
because  he  was  ashamed  to  stay  at  home,  or  afraid  it 
would  hurt  his  interests,  to  win  applause  or  avoid 
ignominy.  He  went  to  fight, — and  this  earnestness 
showed  in  his  words,  looks,  and  acts.  It  gave  his 
youth  the  dignity  of  age,  and  his  inexperience  the 
practical  sagacity  of  the  veteran.  It  aged  him  in  a 
day.     It    impressed    his    fellows,  and,  without    previous 


258  ^  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

personal  popularity,  he  was  from  the  first  facile  princeps 
where  it  was  an  honor  to  be   even   the  socius. 

It  was  just  as  the  spring  was  yielding  her  tender 
beauty  to  the  fierce  ravishment  of  the  fervid  summer 
that  this  band  of  youthful  patriots  mustered  in  the 
streets  of  Perham,  en  route  to  join  the  Army  of  Vir- 
ginia. All  was  music  and  rejoicing.  They  went  to 
the  battle  with  the  joyous  rites  that  are  wont  to  at- 
tend the  return  of  victors.  But  few  thought  of  blood, 
or  suffering,  or  defeat.  The  enemy  was  a  myth  and  a 
jest,  the  war  a  pleasant  picnic,  and  the  "  Godspeed " 
they  were  receiving  only  an  antetype  of  the  "  welcome 
home,'  the  soldiers  might  expect  before  the  autumn 
came  and  the  crops  were  garnered.  One  saucy  beauty 
proffered  her  handkerchief — a  dainty  bit  of  lace  and  lin- 
en— "  to  staunch  all  the  blood  the  Yankees  would  dare 
shed."  Another,  more  given  to  the  horribly  grotesque, 
besought  her  true-love  to  bring  her  back  "  the  skull  of 
that  old  tyrant,  Abe  Lincoln,  for  a  soap-gourd."  Alas, 
alas  !  how  close  of  kin  are  laughter  and  tears ! 

And  over  all  rose  and  fell  the  rollicking  strains  of 
Dixie — Dixie,  strange  child  of  bondage  and  burlesque 
— the  refrain  of  the  plantatio  n  negro,  caught  and  linked 
with  livelier  bars  to  suit  the  purpose  of  the  simulated 
African,  in  whose  hands  the  guitar  became  a  banjo, 
and  whose  minstrelsy  was  a  satire  worthy  of  Cervantes ; 
Dixie,  snatched  from  the  slave  and  the  mountebank 
and  sanctified  and  exalted  by  the  passion  of  a  whole 
people ;  Dixie,  the  casket  which  the  slave  gave  to  the 
master,  in  which  to  enshrine  his  holiest  thought,  the 
strain  which  fired  the  Southern  heart,  the  Grecian  horse 


REVEILLE.  259 

which  was  brought  withm  the  citadel  of  slavery,  and 
spawned  a  brood  which  broached  the  walls  to  the  be- 
leaguring  fanatics. 

Flowers,  and  garlands,  and  beauty,  and  laughter,  all 
were  there.  The  early  roses,  where  the  Southern  sun 
paints  every  petal  with  a  richness  quite  unknown  in 
harsher  climes;  the  jasmine,  with  its  odor  half  conceal- 
ing a  lingering  hint  of  the  poisonous  exhalations  of  its 
swampy  home  (was  it  prophetic  of  Chickahominy .'') ; 
the  feather-flower,  with  its  white  plumes  drooping,  as  if 
speaking  the  stainless  grief  of  the  white-robed  angels, 
with  myriads  of  other  fair  hues  and  intoxicating  odors, 
were  woven  into  garlands,  and  wreaths,  and  crowns,  and 
stars,  by  fair  hands,  inspired  by  loving  hearts,  and 
showered  upon  the  anticipated  victors. 

Alas  !  alas  !  how  quickly  time  changes  the  rose-leaf 
into  mold ! 


CHAPTER  XXVI, 

THE    STACK    ROCKS. 

BETTY  CERTAIN  had  been  for  several  months 
the  possessor  of  Lovett  Lodge,  but  she  continued 
to  live  at  the  old  Certain  place,  and  still  wore  the 
linsey-woolsey  gown  and  its  coarse  accompaniments. 
As  she  told  Geoffrey,  she  had  determined  never  to 
lay  these  aside  again,  having  an  almost  superstitious 
belief  that  the  renunciation  of  what  she  considered 
her  appropriate  habiliments  would  be  the  precursor  of 
misfortune  and  sorrow.  She  had  not  yet  removed  to 
the  Lodge,  because  she  had  been  busy  in  ^attending  to 
the  necessary  work  of  the  plantation  which  was  carried 
on  by  the  new  force  she  had  hired  for  that  purpose, 
under  her  own  oversight.  She  had  told  Geoffrey,  when 
he  protested  against  this  course  upon  her  part,  that 
she  felt  perfectly  competent  to  take  care  of  the  plan- 
tation and  manage  it  successfully,  and  added  that  she 
considered  it  her  duty  to  so  manage  and  economize 
as  to  put  the  estate  in  as  good  a  condition  as  it  was 
when  left  by  Arthur  Lovett,  in  order  that  his  bequests 
might  be  carried  out  to  the  letter.  She  deemed  her- 
self merely  a  trustee  to  accomplish  this  purpose.  She 
had  an  abiding  faith  that  Belle  Lovett  and  her  other 
children  would  some  day  be  found  to  receive  their 
portion   of  the   estate.      She    did    not    know   what   use 


THE  STACK  ROCKS.  261 

she  would  make  of  her  own  share ;  but  she  doubted 
not  in  time  to  be  able  to  devote  it  to  as  good  a  pur- 
pose as  Arthur  Lovett  would  have  desired,  and  she 
wished  it  to  be  capable  of  as  much  good  as  when  he 
designed  to  have  placed  it  in  her  hands.  So  she  gave 
the  most  unw^earying  attention  to  every  detail  of  the 
farm  management ;  corrected  abuses  and  stopped  waste, 
which  the  too  easy  Geoffrey  had  allowed,  and  "  pitched 
a  crop  "  of  unusual  acreage  for  that  plantation.  She 
had  also  been  busy  at  the  Lodge,  restoring  everything 
to  the  status  it  had  borne  when  Arthur  Lovett  was 
alive.  The  old  furniture — or  other  as  near  like  it  as 
could  be  obtained — had  been  set  in  the  old  places ; 
books,  pictures  etc.,  which  Geoffrey  had  discarded  or 
rearranged,  were  put  into  their  former  positions,  and 
the  whole  premises  restored  "  on  the  model  of  the  an- 
tique," as  one  might  say.  ^'' Arthtir  my  Kiiig^'  was  the 
constant  refrain  of  her  faithful  heart,  and  she  had  pro- 
cured and  arranged  everything  that  could  remind  her  of 
the  days  which  she  spent  near  him,  as  his  prospective 
wife.  It  had  been  a  time  of  unexampled  stir  and  in- 
dustry both  on  the  plantation  and  at  the  Lodge,  and 
everywhere  the  coarse  heavy  shoes  and  linsey  gown  of 
Betty  Certain  were  seen,  and  her  firm  voice  and  keen 
eye  directed  all  things.  The  neighboring  planters 
looked  on  in  amazement,  and  said  to  one  another  that 
Betty  Certain  was  showing  the  same  vigor  and  energy 
that  made  her  great-grandfather  Ezra  the  right-hand  of 
the  Earl  upon  his  vast  estates  in  the  Carolinas.  But  the 
preparations  were  finally  completed,  and  to-morrow  Bet- 
ty Certain   intended  to   leave  her  mother's   cottage    for 


262  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

Lovett  Lodge.     She  wondered,  as  she  passed  along  the 
wood-path  toward  her  old  home,   if  she  would  ever  go 
back  to  it  again  to  live.     Her  head  was  bent  forward, 
and  her  hands  were  clasped  loosely  behind   her  as  she 
walked   on  with   a  heavy,  deliberate  stride,  like  a  man 
lost  in  thought.     The  sun  had  set,  and  the  wood-path 
was  growing  dark  to  unaccustomed  eyes ;  but  she  kept 
on   with   the   confidence   of   familiarity,   avoiding   rocks, 
roots  and  branches  without  thought  of  their  existence. 
She  was  not  a  lovely  woman,   and    certainly  not    a 
weak  one.     Fate    had   made   her  a  strange   compound. 
Under  different   circumstances  she  might    have    graced 
a  throne  and    rivaled   the    proudest   names    in    history. 
She    could    do   and    dare  without    faltering;    she  could 
suffer  without    complaining,    and    love   without    return. 
There  was  one  thing  she  had  never  yet  done — forgive. 
Was    she    capable  of   forgiving  a  great,   an  unforgotten 
Avrong.?     Her    soul    was    above    flattery,    the    lust    of 
wealth,  or   the    desire  of  ease.     Was  it    also  above  re- 
venge 1     This  night  was    to    decide.     The  crucial    test 
was  to    be  applied    before    the   moon,  now   just   rising, 
should    sink   beneath    the    horizon.      Step  by  step   she 
was  approaching  the  crisis  of   her   fate,  but   she  knew 
it  not.      She  was   dreaming  of   other  days,  and  of  the 
varied    circumstances    under    which    she    had     passed 
along   that  woodland    path,    to    and    from    the    Lodge. 
First  a   careless   girl,  impelled    by  curiosity  to   see   the 
new  comers ;  then  an  impassioned  maiden,  bounding  to 
the   rescue   of  her   unconscious    lover ;    then   upon    his 
arm  in  the  moonlight ;  then  as  his  affianced  wife ;  then 
an  unwedded  widow,  in  sorrow  and  darkness,  under  the 


THE  STACK  ROCKS.  263 

shadow  of  crime ;  and  then  her  later  migrations — al- 
ways leaving  the  cabin  in  the  sunshine,  and  coming 
back  to  it  in  the  storm.  She  thought  of  her  mother's 
sad  predictions  and  their  fulfillment,  and  she  deter- 
mined to  go  to  the  Lodge  only  as  a  temporary  home, 
and  to  keep  up  the  old  Certain  place  as  a  harbor  of 
refuge  when  the  storm  came — as  she  doubted  not  it 
would,  though  when  or  how  she  could  not  foresee.  So 
she  walked  on,  dreaming  of  the  past,  and  wondering  at 
the  future.  The  moon,  gleaming  through  an  opening  in 
the  undergrowth,  lighted  up  her  form  for  an  instant, 
showing  her  bowed  and  unbonneted  head,  with  its  dark 
hair  gathered  into  a  hard  and  shining  knot  behind. 

A  woman  crouching  behind  the  bole  of  a  great  oak, 
that  stood  beside  the  path  a  few  yards  in  advance,  saw 
her  as  she  passed  through  this  gleam  of  light,  and  her 
eyes  brightened  with  a  baleful  glare.  Then  she  listened 
eagerly  for  her  steps  as  she  came  on  through  the  dark- 
ness, and  watched  the  dim  outline  of  her  figure  as  it 
approached  nearer  and  nearer.  The  crouching  form 
by  the  oak  trembled  with  excitement.  The  fierce  eyes 
flashed  like  gleaming  coals,  and  the  right-hand  quivered 
with  eagerness  as  it  clutched  a  glittering  blade.  Slow- 
ly onward  comes  the  unsuspecting  victim.  The  figure 
in  ambush  begins  to  measure  the  distance  and  calculate 
its  spring.  The  flexed  limbs  tremble  for  the  signal  of 
attack.  Still  it  waits  for  the  victim  to  take  one  more 
step. 

Wake!  Betty  Cej-iain!  Wake  from  your  dream!  or 
the  past  and  the  future  will  be  blended  in  oblivion. 
Stay  your  footsteps !    Turn  and  fly  !    For  once  let  Lovett 


264  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

Lodge  be  a  refuge  from  danger.  Lift  your  eyes — the 
ghost,  the  terrible  ghost — the  murderer  of  Arthur — the 
mutilator  of  Toinette — is  before  you ! 

She  knows  it  not.  She  is  dreaming  of  the  day 
when  Arthur  Lovett  stood  with  her  in  her  wild-wood 
bower  and  asked  her  to  become  his  wife.  She  will  go 
there  to-morrow.  She  will  look  once  more  upon  the 
scene  of  those  plighted  vows  which  she  has  kept  so 
faithfully.     Her  foot  is  raised  for  the  last  step. 

The  limbs  of  the  figure  by  the  oak  become  rigid 
with  expectancy.  The  right  hand,  clutching  the  knife, 
is  swiftly  raised  !  When  Betty  Certain's  foot  shall  fall 
again  in  the  pathway,  the  signal  will  thrill  along  the 
quivering  nerves,  the  limbs  will  bound  like  loosened 
springs,  the  form  will  be  launched  upon  her,  the  blow 
struck,  and  another  chapter  in  the  tragedy  of  Lovett 
Lodge  will  be  at  an  end !  But  no,  not  yet.  Ere  the 
footfall  comes  to  the  waiting  ear,  ere  the  step  is  made, 
Betty  Certain  wakes  from  her  dream,  halts,  and  looks 
quickly  up.  The  upraised  dagger,  passing  through  a 
shaft  of  moonlight,  casts  a  brief  reflection  upon  her 
dress.  She  sees  it  and  starts  back — awake,  alert.  Too 
late !  She  is  still  within  reach  of  the  crouching  horror 
— the  terrible  mystery  which  goes  hand  in  hand  with 
death.  With  a  cry  of  disappoinxment  and  rage,  the 
figure  rises  and  bounds  upon  her  in  the  darkness.  In- 
stinctively she  knows  the  presence  that  confronts  her. 
The  strong  arms  are  raised  to  shield  herself  from  the 
shock.  She  hears  the  cry,  the  rustle  of  garments  in  the 
gloom,  and  feels  a  sharp,  prickling  sting  in  the  left 
shoulder.     At   the  same  time  her  right  hand  comes  in 


THE  STACK  ROCKS.  265 

contact  with  a  mass  of  flowing  hair,  and  two  fiercely 
burning  orbs  confront  her,  glaring  wildly  in  her  face. 
The  nameless  horror  which  for  an  instant  paralyzed  her 
frame  passes  as  rapidly  away.  She  realizes  that  the 
attack  has  been  made  and  has  failed  of  its  purpose,  for 
the  present  at  least.  She  knows  that  the  murderer  of 
Arthur  Lovett  is  before  her,  within  her  reach,  grasping 
for  her  throat  in  mad,  wild  haste ;  that  the  hairs  which 
fall  over  her  hand  and  wrist  are  the  gray  locks  of  the 
ghost  and  murderess.  A  wild  joy  seizes  her.  She 
forgets  that  she  is  wounded.  Now — Heaven  help  her ! 
— Arthur's  death  shall  be  avenged,  and  Toinette's  suf- 
erings  expiated.  Her  usual  confidence  returns.  She 
does  not  doubt  her  power.  The  ghost  of  Lovett  Lodge 
shall  be  laid  that  night,  and  her  own  years  of  desola- 
tion shall  be  recompensed. 

Her  right  hand  closes  fiercely  upon  the  strong,  thick 
locks  and  she  springs  backward  with  a  sudden  jerk.  The 
grasp  which  the  murderess  had  fixed  upon  her  throat 
is  broken,  though  it  strips  the  strong  linsey  dress  from 
her  breast  and  tears  it  to  the  waist.  She  feels  a  deadly 
faintness  as  the  dagger  is  wrenched  from  her  shoulder, 
partly  by  her  own  movement  and  partly  by  the  act  of 
her  assailant.  For  an  instant  all  is  dark  and  her  brain 
reels.  Then  she  feels  the  murderess  trying  to  free 
herself  from  her  clutch  to  repeat  the  blow. 

Fear,  and  love,  and  revenge,  waken  in  her  breast 
a  wild  medley  of  emotion.  The  instinct  of  self-preserv- 
ation surmounts  natural  weakness  and  her  wound  is 
forgotten. 

She    perceived    at    once    the    advantage    which    her 
M 


266  A  kOVAL  GENTLEMAN. 

accidental  clutch  in  the  hair  of  the  murderess  gave  her, 
and  with  a  half-shriek,  half-laugh  of  instinctive  joy,  she 
gave  another  backward  leap,  and  brought  her  antag- 
onist to  her  knees.  Her  enemy  was  evidently  a  power 
ful  woman,  and  made  frequent  attempts  to  regain  her 
position  and  renew  the  attack.  But  Betty  Certain 
was  not  only  brave  but  desperate.  She  was  strong, 
too,  despite  the  surprise  of  the  attack  and  the  wound 
she  had  received.  Back — back — along  the  flinty  path 
with  a  wild  energy  she  dragged  the  prostrate  woman 
like  a  tiger  bearing  off  its  prey,  never  giving  her  time 
to  recover,  twisting  her  hand  in  the  long  hair  and 
chuckling  with  an  insane  delight.  She  saw  her  advan- 
tage and  her  heart  throbbed  with  the  wild  joy  of 
gratified  revenge.  She  forgot  her  wound.  She  thought 
not  of  danger.  The  assassin  of  Arthur  was  in  her  power  ! 
What  were  her  groans  to  Betty  Certain  ?  Music — rare 
music.  Bruise  her?  beat  her.^  kill  her?  aye,  torture 
her  she  would  !  Die  ?  She  should  die  the  most  painful 
death  she  could  devise  !  Had  she  not  killed  her  idol  ? 
She  would  drag  her  along  the  path  which  he  had  trod, 
till  every  spot  his  foot  had  touched  was  bathed  in  blood. 
Her  victim  clutched  at  roots  and  bushes,  and  clung  to 
them  with  desperate  strength.  She  gathered  with  her 
left  hand  still  more  of  the  thick,  strong  hair,  twisted 
it  about  her  hand  again  and  again,  and  pulled  with  a 
giant's  strength  to  break  her  hold.  Then  she  thought 
of  her  heavy  plantation  shoes,  and  kicked  her  in  the 
face — not  deftly  and  easily  as  a  man  would  have  done, 
but  awkwardly,  yet  hitting  hard  and  strong,  again  and 
again — thinking  every  blow  of  Arthur  and  his  death. 


THE  STACK  ROCKS.  267 

Still  the  woman  kept  her  hold  for  a  time.  Then  she 
suddenly  loosed  one  hand  and  snatched  wildly  at  Betty 
Certain's  foot.  She  missed  it,  but  caught  the  strong 
linsey  dress.  Then  she  let  go  her  hold  upon  the  root 
and  tried  to  rise.  If  she  should  get  upon  her  feet  the 
issue  would  still  be  doubtful.  Arthur's  murderess  might 
yet  escape.  Betty  Certain  tried  to  tear  away  from  her. 
The  woman's  grip  was  a  desperate  one  and  the  tough 
homespun  would  not  yield.  She  had  grasped  it  now 
with  both  hands.  She  would  soon  be  on  her  feet. 
Betty  Certain  still  clutched  the  hair — now  close  to  her 
antagonist's  head.  Suddenly  she  thrust  her  hands 
downward,  falling  forward  herself,  casting  her  whole 
weight  on  the  neck  of  her  enemy.  The  woman  sank 
beneath  her,  crushed  down  upon  the  flinty  path.  The 
woman's  face  was  turned  from  her,  the  right  side  of 
her  head  pressed  upon  the  ground.  Betty  Certain  put 
one  knee  upon  her  shoulder  and  held  her  powerless. 
She  could  hold  her  thus,  but  how  long }  That  was 
the  question.  The  frenzy  which  had  possessed  her  for 
a  time  had  somewhat  abated.  She  felt  the  pain  of  her 
wound  now,  and  a  desire  to  know  its  location  and  char- 
acter. Once  or  twice  a  sort  of  faintness  stole  over  her, 
but  by  dint  of  a  strong  effort  of  will  she  repelled  it. 
The  strange  woman  had  never  ceased  to  struggle.  Even 
now  she  was  searching  with  her  left  hand,  which 
was  still  free,  for  something  in  the  pathway.  Her 
breath  came  hard  and  thick,  and  she  sometimes 
groaned  when  her  struggles  proved  futile,  but  said 
not  a  word — neither  did  Betty  Certain.  With  the  latter, 
however,   it   was   becoming   a    question   of  importance, 


268  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

how  long  she  would  be  able  to  maintain  her  present 
advantage.  Uninjured,  she  would  have  been  more  than 
a  match  for  her  opponent,  though  the  latter  was  a  wo- 
man of  great  activity  and  with  a  litheness  of  build  well 
calculated  for  endurance.  The  faintness  which  she  had 
experienced,  as  well  as  the  almost  total  uselessness  of 
her  left  arm,  warned  her  that  should  she  lose  her  present 
advantage,  the  odds  would  be  decidedly  in  favor  of  her 
antagonist.  How  should  she  maintain  it  with  her  fail- 
ing strength  ?  Betty  Certain  pondered  the  question 
anxiously. 

She  did  not  think  of  her  own  safety  so  much  as  the 
escape  of  Arthur's  assassin.  Even  if  she  should  retain 
her  position  until  day,  there  was  little  chance  of  any  one 
coming  to  her  aid  in  that  lonely  wood-path.  The  ser- 
vants at  the  Lodge  would  think  her  in  the  field,  and 
those  in  the  field  would  suppose  her  to  be  at  the  house, 
and  none  would  be  within  reach  of  her  voice.  To  re- 
main in  her  present  position  until  chance  brought  relief 
seemed'  to  her,  after  long  consideration,  simply  im- 
possible. What,  then,  should  she  do .''  There  were  but 
two  alternatives.  She  must  either  kill  or  disable  the 
enemy.  How  could  this  be  done }  It  was  a  difficult 
question,  on  account  of  the  faintness  likely  to  arise  from 
the  use  of  her  wounded  arm.  Suddenly  she  saw  some- 
thing glittering  in  the  path.  The  moon,  now  risen 
higher,  glanced  bright  through  the  clustering  branches 
in  uncertain  patches  of  light.  In  one  of  these,  within 
easy  reach,  was  something  glistening  strangely.  At 
first  she  could  not  make  it  out.  At  length  she  knew. 
It  was  a   jewel    in   the  hilt   of   the  dagger   with  which 


THE  STACK  ROCKS.  269 

she  had  been  struck,  and  to  which  her  assailant  had 
desperately  held  until  compelled  to  release  it  and 
grasp  the  root,  to  save  herself  from  being  dragged 
along  the  path.  It  was  this  which  the  w^oman  was  even 
now  groping  blindly  for,  among  the  stones,  with  her  left 
hand.  It  was  just  outside  the  circle  she  so  carefully 
explored.  She  held  her  victim  yet  closer,  and  with  her 
lamed  arm  reached  over  and  seized  the  weapon.  The 
woman  made  a  fearful  effort  to  throw  her  off  as  she  did 
so,  but  in  vain.  Betty  Certain  held  the  dagger  up  in  a 
streak  of  moonlight,  and  examined  it  narrowly.  It  was 
the  very  one  with  which  Toinette  had  been  wounded. 
Her  heart  throbbed  with  joy  as  she  made  the  discovery. 
The  woman  groaned  as  she  saw  the  w^eapon,  and 
ceased   her  struggles. 

"It's  no  use,  Betty  Certain,"  she  said;  "you've  got 
the  advantage  of  me  now,  and  can  kill  me  as  soon  as 
you  choose.  I  don't  blame  you.  I  meant  to  have 
killed  you.  I  hev  stood  in  yer  way  more  than  once. 
Yer  ain't  Arthur  Lovett's  wife,  an  I  've  worn  the  wed- 
ding clothes  you  had  no  use  for.  I  'm  much  obliged 
for  them,"  she  added,  mockingly. 

Betty  Certain's  frame  shook  with  revengeful  emotion. 
She  should  die — this  mocking  hend — die  by  her  hand ; 
and  she  raised  the  dagger,  then  another  thought  seemed 
to  strike  her.  She  placed  her  right  knee  upon  the 
woman's  neck,  and  loosed  the  clutch  she  had  kept 
in  her  hair.  Then,  taking  the  dagger  in  her  right  hand, 
she  directed  her  to  place  her  hands  behind   her  back. 

"Do  you  want  to  torture  me.''"  cried  the  woman. 
"  Do  you  want  to  see  me  hung  }    Kill  me  now !"    And  she 


270  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

stubbornly  refused  to  move.  Betty  Certain  pricked  her 
here  and  there  with  the  sharp  dagger-point  until  the  wo- 
man cringed  and  groaned,  but  still  refused.  Again  and 
again,  with  deliberate  coolness,  Betty  Certain  mutilated 
the  prostrate  form  to  compel  obedience.  Human  nature 
could  finally  bear  no  more,  and  the  unhappy  creature 
yielded,  and  crossed  her  hands  upon  her  back.  Then 
Betty  Certain  loosened  the  strong  linen  apron  which  sae 
wore,  and  with  the  knife  shred  it  into  strips.  Taking  the 
knife  in  her  teeth  she  leaned  forward  and  bound  the 
woman's  hands  tightly.  Then  she  tied  several  of  the 
shreds  together,  making  a  rope  a  few  feet  long,  and 
attached  it  to  them.  Then  she  rose,  holding  the  end 
of  this  extemporized  rope,  and  stood  over  her  pros- 
trate victim.  Her  breast  heaved  with  excitement ;  her 
teeth  were  set  and  her  eyes  flashed.  All  the  memories 
of  the  years  of  blighted  hope,  the  thought  of  her  dead 
love — the  happiness  that  might  have  been  but  for  this 
woman  at  her  feet,  surged  through  her  mind  at  once. 
The  moonlight  came  through  the  trees,  and  lighted 
up  the  prostrate  form.  Betty  Certain  stooped  and 
examined  the  dress  narrowly.  It  was  part  of  her 
own  wedding  trousseau — the  grey  traveling-dress  which 
she  had  fancied,  and  in  regard  to  which  Arthur  had 
rallied  her  the  last  time  she  had  heard  his  voice.  Her 
excitement,  before  intense,  was  increased  ten-fold  by 
this  discovery;  her  eyes  were  bloodshot,  her  face 
twitched,  and  her  voice  was  hoarse  and  trembled  with 
anger  and  revenge  as  she  rose.  The  woman  had  not 
moved  or  spoken  since  she  was  bound.  Betty  Certain 
shook  the  dagger  yet  red  with   her  own   blood    above 


THE  STACK  ROCKS.  271 

her,  and  it  seemed,  for  an  instant,  that  the  last  scene  in 
the  drama  of  Lovett  Lodge  was  about  to  be  enacted. 
Then  she  restrained  herself,  and  said,  hoarsely,  "  Get 
up!"  The  woman  did  not  move  or  answer,  "Get 
up!"  repeated  Betty,  spurning  her  fiercely  with  her  foot. 

The  woman  groaned,  and  said,  "  Kill  me,  Betty  Cer- 
tain, kill  me !  I  would  have  killed  you,  but  did  not 
mean  to  torture  you !     I  did  not  torture  ht?fi.'* 

This  allusion  to  Arthur  was  too  much  for  Betty  Cer- 
tain.    She  became  furious  with  rage. 

^^  Get  tip!  get  up!''  she  cried,  and  she  kicked  and 
stamped  her  victim  with  unbridled  fury.  The  demon 
of  revenge  had  taken  possession  of  her  soul.  She  would 
gladly  have  trodden  the  flesh  from  her  enemy's  bones. 
The  groans  gave  her  a  wild  delight,  and  the  poor 
wretch's  shrieking,  "I  will!  I  will!"  had  been  several 
times  repeated  before  she  desisted  from  her  attacks  so 
as  to  allow  her  to  comply.  Even  then  she  would  not, 
but  her  mind  had  formed  a  plan  of  revenge  beside 
which  death  by  violence  would  be  as  nothing.  She 
would  have  a  revenge  commensurate  with  her  suffering, 
and  her  long  waiting;  as  signal  as  her  loss  and  injury 
by  this  woman's  act  had  been. 

The  woman  rose  to  a  sitting  posture.  Betty  Cer- 
tain took  her  by  the  hair,  assisted  her  to  her  feet,  and 
bade  her  go  forward  along  the  path  toward  the  old 
Certain  place.  She  obeyed,  moving  with  difliculty. 
When  they  reached  the  house,  Betty  Certain  lighted  a 
tallow  candle  and  surveyed  her  captive  closely.  Her 
face  was  disfigured  with  cuts  and  bruises.  From  her 
mouth  and  nose  the   blood  was    still  flowing,  and  her 


272  A   ROYAL   GENTLEMAN. 

dress  and  long  grey  hair  were  dabbled  with  its  stains. 
Her  eyes  were  swollen  and  bloodshot,  but  still  burned 
with  a  look  of  sullen  disappointment.  She  seemed  not 
to  notice  the  scrutiny  to  which  she  was  submitted ;  but 
her  countenance  lighted  up  with  a  gleam  of  satisfaction 
despite  its  ghastliness,  when  she  saw  the  look  of  pain 
that  came  over  the  face  of  Betty  Certain  as  she  glanced 
at  the  dress  in  which  she  had  hoped  to  be  habited 
as  a  bride,  so  many  long  years  ago.  She  put  out  her 
hands  and  felt  it  softly,  lovingly.  Looking  up,  she 
caught  the  gaze  of  the  murderess  fastened  upon  her, 
as  if  rejoicing  in  her  pain.  The  tenderness  faded  from 
Betty  Certain's  countenance  in  an  instant,  and  was  suc- 
ceeded by  a  look  of  stern  determination.  She  made 
her  victim  sit  down  upon  a  chair,  and  passed  the  rope 
which  bound  her  hanas  under  the  chair  and  tied  it  about 
her  feet.  She  then  took  down  from  a  peg  in  the  corner 
of  the  room  a  coil  of  small  rope  which  had  been  some- 
time used  for  plow-lines.  Having  undone  it,  she  put 
the  knotted  end  beneath  her  foot  and  tried  its  strength. 
She  seemed  satisfied  with  the  result,  and  proceeded  to 
tie  one  end  firmly  around  the  crossed  hands  of  her 
captive.  The  other  she  fastened  to  a  wooden  peg  in 
the  wall  behind  her.  Then  she  poured  water  in  the 
tin  basin  beside  the  door  and  washed  her  own  face  and 
hands,  bound  up  her  hair  which  had  become  loose  in 
the  struggle,  and  washed  and  roughly  bandaged  her 
wound.  It  was,  she  found,  in  her  arm,  just  at  the 
shoulder,  missing  the  joint  a  little  and  glancing  off 
backwards.  It  bled  freely,  but  she  judged  that  it  would 
not  prove  serious.     The  woman  asked  for  water,   and 


THE  STACK  RO CKS,  273 

she  took  her  the  gourd  and  held  it  to  her  lips  while 
she  drank.  She  did  not  speak  to  her.  She  sought 
about  the  house  and  gathered  up  some  pieces  of  fat 
pine,  which  she  split  with  the  axe  and  made  into  a 
small  bundle,  and  placed  a  bunch  of  matches  in  hei 
pocket.  She  undid  the  cloth  rope  from  her  victim's 
ankles,  and  taking  the  end  of  the  plow-line  from  the 
peg  where  she  had  fastened  it,  she  made  a  half-hitch 
about  the  woman's  neck  and  led  her  with  it  like  a  halter. 
Then,  taking  the  torch  in  one  hand,  said,  "Come!" 
The  woman  rose,  and  was  led  out  of  the  door  and 
along  the  path  to  the  spring. 

She  walked  rapidly  and  dragged  the  woman  roughly 
after  her.  When  she  came  opposite  the  bower  which 
she  had  visited  with  Arthur  Lovett  years  ago,  she  still 
kept  along  the  bank  till  she  came  to  an  angle  of  the 
rocky  ledge  upon  its  crest.  Upon  the  slope  of  the  hill 
here,  where  it  turned  to  the  southward,  the  woods 
were  more  open,  and  a  number  of  huge  rocks,  whose 
summits  were  almost  on  a  level  with  the  surrounding 
oaks,  stood  like  a  group  of  grizzled  sentinels.  In  shape 
they  were  not  far  different  from  the  hay-stacks  of  the 
country,  and,  standing  but  a  few  feet  apart,  were  cer- 
tainly suggestive  of  the  crowded  stack-yard  of  a  thrifty 
farmer.  From  this  analogy  they  were  named  and 
known,  throughout  the  country  round,  as  "  the  Stack 
Rocks."  Here  had  been  a  famous  deer-stand  in  the 
days  of  Betty  Certain's  father,  whose  old  Queen's  Arm 
had  dropped  many  an  antlered  buck  and  sleek-coated 
doe,  as  they  came  dashing  round  the  hill  toward  the 
thickets   that   grew  along  the  branch  below.      Even  at 


274  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

this  day  the  patient  stalker  sometimes  gets  a  shot  at 
the  same  noble  game  when  the  Stack  Rock  drive  is 
made. 

Among  these  giant  rocks  Betty  Certain  threaded  her 
way  with  the  easy  familiarity  of  one  whose  feet  are 
following  a  path  they  learned  in  childhood. 

She  stopped  before  the  entrance  of  a  sort  of  cave, 
held  her  torch  under  an  overhanging  rock  for  a  moment, 
and  bade  her  prisoner  look  upward.  A  small  patch  of 
sky  was  visible  between  the  tree-tops,  with  the  moon, 
now  at  the  zenith,  and  a  few  stars.  The  woman  com- 
plied. 

"  Take  a  good  look,"  said  Betty  Certain,  "  you  will 
never  see  the  like  again." 

The  woman  did  not  seem  surprised,  but  looked  again 
and  then  turned  towards  her  leader.  The  latter  mo- 
tioned with  the  torch  towards  the  mouth  of  the  cave  and 
told  her  to  go  in.  The  woman  stooped  and  entered. 
Betty  Certain  followed,  holding  the  rope.  After  a  few 
steps  the  cave  widened  into  a  sort  of  room.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  opening  beyond.  The  woman  stopped. 
On  the  side  opposite  the  entrance  were  several  rocks, 
on  the  top  of  which  stood  one  which  seemed  to  over- 
hang its  base  in  every  direction.  Betty  Certain  stepped 
forward,  and,  laying  her  torch  upon  one  of  the  rocks 
on  which  this  one  rested,  placed  her  hand  against  it, 
and,  with  little  exertion,  rocked  it  to  and  fro  on  its 
pedestal. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  "how  easily  it  may  be  over- 
turned." The  woman  shuddered  and  closed  her  eyes, 
as  if  she  saw  herself  crushed  and  mangled  by  its  fall. 


THE  STACK  ROCKS.  275 

B€tty   Certain    laughed — a  low,   chuckling,   cruel   laugh 
— and  said : 

"But  I  do  not  mean  to  push  it  over  on  you."  The 
woman  looked  up  in  surprise.  Betty  Certain  laughed 
again,  and  her  victim  shuddered  at  the  sound. 

"  I  never  thought  when,  a  little  girl,  I  found  this 
cave  and  made  it  my  playhouse,  that  it  would  serve  me 
for  such  a  purpose..  Come!"  she  added,  in  a  sneering 
tone,  "I  have  not  shown  you  all  its  attractions." 

She  seized  the  torch  and  led  the  woman  round  the 
pile  of  rocks.     Just  behind  it  was  an  opening  low  and 
narrow.     One  must  stoop  to  enter.     Betty  Certain  mo- 
tioned her  prisoner  toward  it,  and  said  sternly : 
Go  m. 

The  woman  hesitated.  Betty  Certain  stuck  the 
flaming  lightwood  in  a  crevice  of  the  rock,  and  said, 

"Well,  if  I  must  drag  you  in  by  the  hair,  as  I  did 
along  the  path,  I  can  do  it,"  and  she  moved  toward 
her  victim  as  if  to  tie  her  limbs.  The  woman  stooped 
and  entered  the  aperture  with  a  moan.  Betty  took 
the  torch  and  followed.  The  opening  grew  smaller, 
and  they  were  compelled  to  go  upon  their  knees. 
After  a  short  distance,  it  expanded  again,  and  they 
came  out  into  another  room.  The  air  seemed  thick 
and  heavy,  and  thousands  of  bats  took  wing  and 
flew  about  in  the  yellow  murky  light  which  the  torch 
made  in  the  cavern  gloom.  The  apartment  was  not  a 
large  one — not  more  than  ten  steps  across.  Betty  Cer- 
tain led  her  victim  around  it  without  a  word.  Its  walls 
were  rough  rocks,  with  here  and  there  a  cleft,  which 
showed    the    white    hard    clay    or    metamorphic    gravel 


276  '^  ROYAL  gentleman: 

of  the  hill  substrata.  It  was  evidently  not  one  of 
those  crevices  which  time  and  torrents  cut  out  of  the 
limestone  of  some  sections;  but  a  subterranean  fissure, 
w^hich  had  been  formed  by  the  primitive  rocks  having 
become  wedged  together  in  the  last  act  of  some  great 
natural  drama,  in  the  early  days  of  the  world's  history. 
Granite  with  veins  of  quartz  constituted  the  walls  and 
ceiling.  Near  the  middle  of  the  apartment  was  a  slen- 
der shaft  of  granite,  rising  some  seven  or  eight  feet 
and  then  abruptly  terminating,  like  a  broken  pillar  at  a 
dead  hero's  grave.  Betty  Certain,  having  finished  the 
circuit  of  the  cave,  led  the  woman  to  this  pillar  and  bade 
her  sit  down  upon  a  stone,  some  ten  or  twelve  inches 
high,  which  lay  against  it.  When  this  was  done,  she 
passed  the  cord  she  held  around  her  left  arm,  above 
the  elbow,  carried  it  round  the  rock,  and  after  fasten- 
ing it  about  the  other,  drew  them  tightly  back  and 
tied  the  rope  securely;  so  that  the  woman  sat  against 
the  rock  with  her  hands  fastened  together  behind  it. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE    EXECUTRIX. 

BETTY  CERTAIN  sat  down  upon  a  fragment  of 
rock  in  front  of  her  victim,  and  held  the  torch 
close  to  the  woman's  terror-stricken  face.  There  was 
a  strange  leer  upon  her  own,  as  she  said : 

"  You  will  be  perfectly  safe  here,  and  folks  out- 
side will  be  safe,  too." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  the  woman. 

"  Do  .^  Nothing.  Only  when  I  go  out  from  here 
I  shall  push  over  that  rock  which  you  saw  before  the 
entrance." 

"  And  bury  me  alive  ?"  the  woman  said  wdth  a  shud- 
der. 

There  was  no  reply. 

"  I  cannot  blame  you,  Betty  Certain,"  she  contin- 
ued, '"  but  it  is  a  terrible  revenge  you  are  taking.  I 
have  done  you  great  wrong,  it  is  true,  and  would  have 
done  more.  I  do  n't  ask  for  any  mercy,  but  if  you 
would  grant  me  one  request — just  one — you  may  do 
what  you  like  with  me  then.  It  is  not  for  me  so  much 
as  for  another — for  Toinette." 

"Toinette!"  said  Betty.  "Toinette!  You  tried  to 
kill  her  once.     Do  you  wish  me  to  do  it  for  you.?" 

"  Do  not  mock  me,  Betty  Certain,"  said  the  captive 
woman.     "  What  I  wish  you  to  do  is  to  take  a  package, 


278  ^  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

which  hangs  round  my  neck  by  a  gold  chain,  and  for- 
ward it  to  Toinette.  It  contains  papers  of  the  utmost 
importance  to  her." 

Betty  Certain  seemed  incredulous. 

"  How  do  you  come  to  have  papers  of  importance  to 
Toinette  ?  Who  are  you .?  How  can  I  believe  you  ? 
Did  you  not  try  to  murder  her.?  What  interest  have 
you  in  her?" 

"  I  am  her  mother,"  said  the  woman. 

"  You  her  mother  ?''  said  Betty  Certain,  peering  sus- 
piciously at  her  in  the  dull  murkiness  of  the  cavern. 
"Why,  then,  did  you  seek  to  kill  her.?" 

"  To  save  her  from  a  worse  fate,"  answered  the 
woman  calmly.  "  Had  she  been  your  child,  would  you 
have  rather  seen  her  dead  or  polluted.?" 

"  True,  too  true,"  said  Betty.  "  I  had  never  thought 
of  that.  You,  then,  are  Manuel  Hunter's  cook — old 
Mabel?"  she  inquired,  eyeing  her  keenly. 

"  I  am  Arthur  Lovett's  freedwoman,  Belle  Lovett," 
answered  the  woman  sharply. 

"What?  What  did  you  say?  Belle  Lovett?  Did 
you  say  your  name  was  Belle  Lovett?"  said  Betty  Cer- 
tain in  a  confused,  uncertain  manner,  which  showed  how 
completely  she  was  overwhelmed  with  astonishment. 
Somehow  she  did  not  think  of  doubting  the  woman's 
declaration.  There  was  something  so  consistent  with  all 
that  was  known  of  the  tragedy  of  Lovett  Lodge  and  ex- 
plained so  much  that  had  been  mysterious  in  it,  that  she 
could  but  recognize  its  truth. 

"  That  is  my  name,"  said  the  woman. 

"  And  yet  you  killed  him — killed   Arthur   Lovett — 


THE  EXECUTRIX,  279 

killed  the  man  who  loved  you  better  than  his  own  soul. 
Why,  why,  did  you  do  it?" 

"  Because  he  was  about  to  marry  you.  Because  he 
bartered  off  my  children,  and  myself,  when  I  had  been 
more  than  wife  to  him,  for  gold  to  satisfy  his  sisters — 
cruel,  heartless  women — and  to  buy  gay  frocks  for 
a  poor  white  woman  who  had  coaxed  him  to  agree  to 
marry  her.  Why  did  I  kill  him  1  Because  he  was 
blacker  than  hell  with  lies  which  he  had  told  me!" 
answered  the  woman  fiercely. 

"Poor  woman!.  Poor  thing!'''  said  Betty  Certain. 
"You  little  know  what  love  he  had  for  you.  At  the 
very  moment  when  he  died  by  your  hand,  his  will,  just 
written,  gave  you  and  your  children  one-half  of  his 
estate.  You  were  jealous  of  me.  You  did  not  know 
that  almost  his  sole  reason  in  offering  marriage  to  me 
was  to  secure  some  one  who  would  fulfill  his  wishes  in 
regard  to  you  and  your  children  in  the  event  of  his 
death." 

"Is  that  true.?"  asked  the  woman  eagerly.  "Did 
he  tell  you  this.?" 

"  It  was  our  only  courtship,"  said  Betty  sternly.  "  He 
never  uttered  a  word  of  love  to  me.  But  I  loved  him 
better  than  you.  I  would  have  given  up  all  to  you  had 
he  thought  it  a  duty.  At  this  very  time  I  was  prepar- 
ing to  seek  you  out  to  give  you  liberty,  and  with  it  your 
share  of  the  estate.  And  now  I  find  you  stained 
with  his  blood.  Oh  God ! — It  cannot  be !  You  are 
not  Belle  Lovett !  What  proofs  have  you .?  Give  me 
proof." 

"  Alas!"  said  the  woman,  "but  for  Toinette  I  would 


2g0  ^  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

not  care  to  produce  them.  They  are  in  the  packet  in 
my  bosom.     Take  them  and  examine  them." 

Betty  Certain  put  her  hand  under  the  woman's  dress 
with  a  shudder.  She  found  the  packet,  broke  the  chain 
with  a  hasty  jerk,  and  drew  it  forth.  It  was  like  one 
which  was  found  in  the  drawer  with  the  will  of  Arthur 
Lovett,  and  she  mentioned  this  fact. 

*'  Yes,"  replied  the  woman,  "  there  were  two  exactly 
alike.  My  likeness  was  in  that  one,  and  you  will  find 
his  portrait  in  this." 

Betty  Certain  sat  gazing  at  the  packet  she  held 
for  some  moments  in  silence.  The  harsh  expression 
of  gratified  revenge  which  her  face  had  worn  was 
lost,  and  one  of  painful  surprise  and  perplexity  suc- 
ceeded to  it.  That  the  murderess  of  Arthur  Lovett 
should  be  the  woman  whose  very  name  and  life  was 
sanctified  to  her  by  his  love,  and  whom  she  had  prom- 
ised, again  and  again,  to  act  towards  as  he  would  have 
desired  she  should,  was  a  startling  thought. 

"  I  will  come  back,"  she  said  finally,  as  she  took  the 
remains  of  the  torch,  knocking  off  the  charred  end,  and 
passed  quickly  out  through  the  passage  by  which  they 
had  entered.  Her  victim  gazed  after  her  with  a  dull, 
vacant  stare. 

Betty  Certain  passed  rapidly  along  the  path  they 
had  come  until  she  reached  the  cottage.  She  lighted 
a  candle,  placed  it  upon  the  deal  table,  and  proceeded 
at  once  to  the  perusal  of  the  papers  contained  in  the 
packet  she  had  taken  from  the  neck  of  Belle  Lovett. 
It  was  no  easy  matter  to  decipher  them,  for  they  had 
grown    dim  with   age,   and    the   rough    usage    to  which 


THE  EXECUTRIX.  281 

they  had  been  exposed.  Betty  Certain  had  none  of 
the  skill  in  deciphering  written  instruments  which  comes 
from  frequent  exercise.  She  but  rarely  had  occasion 
to  read  any  written  document,  and  was  unfamiliar  with 
the  various  styles  of  different  hands.  After  unfolding 
the  closely  compressed  papers,  she  found,  and,  with 
much  labor  managed  to  decipher,  the  original  deed  of 
manumission  given  to  Belle  by  the  old  man,  Peter 
Lovett,  in  New  York.  It  had  the  certificate  of  probate 
and  registration  upon  it,  and  she  did  not  doubt  its 
genuineness.  There  were  also  several  letters  addressed 
to  Belle  Lovett,  all  of  them  unquestionably  in  the  hand- 
writing of  Arthur. 

Betty  Certain  plodded  through  them  carefully. 

The  past  was  now  an  open  book  to  her,  and  she 
asked  herself  what  was  her  duty.  What  would  Arthur 
Lovett  have  desired  her  to  do  under  like  circum- 
stances .-*  She  took  up  the  packet  and  drew  from  it 
the  golden  locket  which  this  strange  woman  in  the 
cave  yonder  had  worn  so  many  years.  That  woman — 
what  should  she  call  her  .'*  Slave  1  Mistress  1  Mur- 
deress ?  At  least,  and  by  whatever  name,  the  Fate  of 
Arthur  Lovett,  linked  to  him  by  the  tenderest  ties. 
Betty  Certain  recognizes  that,  as  regards  Arthur  Lovett, 
she  is  but  secondary  to  this  strange  compound  now 
bound  down  in  the  cave.  She  must  ask  herself,  if  she 
would  faithfully  perform  the  trust  which  the  dead  had 
imposed  on  her,  not  how  ought  Betty  Certain  to  feel 
towards  Belle  Lovett,  and  what  should  Betty  Certain's 
conduct  be  toward  her,  but  what  ought  Arthur  Lovett, 
or  one  representing  solely  his  interest  and  duty,  to  do 


282  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

under  these  circumstances?  It  was  as  the  executrix, 
nay  more,  as  the  trustee,  the  representative  of  his  in- 
most   thoughts    and    wishes,  that    she    must    now    act. 

What  had  the  woman  done  ?  She  had  taken  the  Hfe 
of  Arthur  Lovett !  Why  ?  Under  a  mistaken,  though 
reasonable,  misconception  of  his  views  in  regard  to  her- 
self. How  came  she  to  consider  that  question  at  all } 
What  gave  her  the  right  to  say  to  Arthur  Lovett, 
"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me  and  my  chil- 
dren?" Could  Arthur  Lovett  blame  this  woman  whose 
life  had  been  a  series  of  blighted  hopes  and  priceless 
sacrifices  on  his  behalf?  Could  he  blame  her  if,  when 
she  found  herself  for  the  third  time  a  slave,  and  saw 
him  quietly  contemplating  marriage  with  another,  she 
lost  faith  in  his  promises?  Betty  Certain  considered 
the  question  fairly,  and  concluded  that  Arthur  Lovett, 
looking  down  from  the  rest  which  had  succeeded  his 
unquiet  life,  could  not  but  say  that  the  act  of  this 
woman  was  by  no  means  without  excuse,  and  she  had 
no  doubt  that  he  would  wish  her  to  receive  no  punish- 
ment therefor.  So,  that  was  settled.  As  Arthur  Lovett's 
representative  she  could  not  injure  this  woman  in  any 
manner,  for  the  act  which  was  uppermost  in  her 
mind. 

What  else  had  she  done  ?  She  had  tried  to  kill 
Toinette.  Toinette  was  her  daughter,  and  exposed  to 
the  very  danger  which  had  filled  her  own  life  with 
trouble  and  anguish,  and  which  had  since  then  actually 
overtaken  the  daughter.  A  Roman  father  had  been 
made  immortal  for  slaying  his  daughter  to  save  her  from 
a  like  fate.     She  could  not  be  blamed  for  that.     Betty 


THE  EXECUTRIX.  283 

Certain  even  felt  a  sort  of  womanly  pride  in  the  act 
herself,  now  that  she  knew  its  motive. 

What  else?  She  had  attempted  to  murder  her — 
Betty  Certain.  The  act  was  dastardly,  revengeful,  and 
without  excuse.  Was  she  called  upon  to  forgive  that  ? 
The  lines  about  her  mouth  set  clear  and  sharp  as  she 
considered  this  question.  It  was  evident  that  she  did 
not  desire  to  answer  in  the  affirmative.  But,  with  her 
old  habit,  she  asked  herself,  "What  would  Arthur  wish 
me  to  do.''"  And  then  she  thought  of  the  woman  her- 
self, harassed  and  inflamed  by  a  life  of  untold  misery, 
crowded,  as  it  seemed,  with  incurable  evils.  And  as 
she  sighed,  "Poor  thing!"  the  victory  was  complete. 
Betty  Certain  had  forgiven  her  bitterest  enemy.  She 
could  bid  defiance  to  revenge.  The  crown,  which  so 
many  years  of  suffering  had  wrought  for  her,  was  placed 
by  angel  hands  upon  her  brow  just  as  the  dawn  cast 
its  first  rosy  gleams  through  the  eastern  window.  She 
shut  the  door  carefully  and  cast  herself  on  her  knees 
by  the  bedside.  Sobs  and  groans  shook  her  form  and 
attested  her  utter  prostration  of  spirit. 

The  "poor-white"  woman,  who  had  been  a  mur- 
derer in  heart  that  night,  returned  fervent  thanks  to 
the  kind  Providence  which  had  saved  her  from  the 
commission  of  crime.  She  recognized  the  Merciful 
Hand  which  had  built  up  an  impassable  barrier  be- 
tween her  and  the  temptation  by  which  she  was  beset. 
The  mystery  of  the  past  was  made  plain  to  her  in 
that  hour,  and  she  sought  for  faith  and  wisdom  to 
guide  her  in  the  future. 

At    length    she    rose,   and    wiping    away    her    tears, 


284  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

balhed  her  face  and  sat  down  by  the  fire  she  had 
kindled  some  hours  before.  There  was  a  new  Hght, 
a  peaceful  radiance  on  her  plain,  strong  face  that  spoke 
of  a  spirit  which  had  come  out  of  temptation,  purified 
and  strengthened  by  its  fiery  blast. 

She  lifted  the  locket,  and  was  about  to  press  the 
spring  and  gaze  upon  the  features.  She  hesitated;  no, 
she  would  not  do  it.  It  belonged  to  that  woman  in  the 
cave  yonder.  It  was  her  secret.  The  receptacle  of  her 
joys  and  sorrows,  her  kisses  and  tears.  It  was  that 
woman's  shrine.     She  would  not  mar  its  sanctity. 

Betty  Certain  was  not  a  woman  to  do  things  by 
halves.  She  wrapped  up  the  locket  and  papers,  and 
put  them  in  a  drawer  of  the  old  bureau.  Then,  gather- 
ing another  handful  of  pine  splinters,  she  started  again 
for  the  cave.  She  walked  briskly,  almost  gaily,  like  one 
who  goes  to  a  pleasant  task.  When  she  reached  it,  she 
lighted  the  pine  torch  and  went  in.  The  woman  looked 
at  her  with  a  haggard  but  hopeless  gaze.  Betty  Certain 
cut  the  cords  which  bound  her  arms.  The  woman 
looked  up,  as  if  she  wondered  what  new  torture 
awaited  her. 

"  Come,"  said  Betty  Certain,  and  she  motioned  to- 
ward the  entrance. 

A  terrible  fear  seemed  to  take  possession  of  the  wo- 
man's mind. 

"Don't!"  she  cried;  "don't,  Betty  Certain— kill 
me  here  !  Let  me  stay  here  and  starve  ;  bury  me  alive ; 
beat  me,  torture  me,  do  what  you  will  with  me — I  won't 
blame  you — only  do  n't  give  me  up  to  be  hung  for  mur- 
der !     No,   no ;    I  '11   bless   you.     Perhaps   my   Toinie  's 


THE  EXECUTRIX.  285 

right  anyhow,  and  you  are  the  good  woman  she  thinks 
you.  If  you  are,  do  n't  give  me  up  to  be  made  a  spec- 
tacle of  by  a  brutal  crowd.  You  are  a  woman — spare 
me.  You  know  I  am  counted  only  a  nigger,  but  I  am 
human  and  have  some  claims  on  your  mercy.  If  I  did 
kill  Arthur  Lovett,  just  think  of  the  life  I  've  led.  And 
oh,  Miss  Betty,  if  you  ever  loved  him,  think  that  he 
once  loved  me,  and  spare  me,  and  Toinette,  his  child, 
from  the  degradation  of  a  public  death,  for  his  sake. 
Please,  Miss  Betty,  please!" 

The  woman  had  thrown  herself  on  the  ground  at 
Betty's  feet  as  she  made  this  appeal,  and  it  was  with 
difficulty  that  the  latter  could  stop  the  torrent  of  words 
she  poured  forth.     At  length  she  said : 

"  I  have  no  intention  of  giving  you  up  to  anyone. 
I  want  you  to  go  to  the  house.  1  cannot  talk  with 
you   here." 

"Is  there  no  one  waiting  for  me.?"  asked  the 
trembling  prisoner. 

"  I  have  neither  seen  nor  spoken  to  anyone  but 
you  since  sundown  last  night." 

The  woman  followed  her  out  and  went  wdth  her  to 
the  house.  Arriving  there,  Betty  Certain  at  once  pro- 
vided for  removing  all  traces  of  the  night's  rencontre 
from  the  person  and  clothing  of  the  woman.  Her  face 
was  washed,  and  its  cuts  and  bruises  poulticed.  The 
dress  which  she  wore  was  exchanged  for  one  of  her  owm 
linsey  gowns,  and  then  setting  a  cup  of  warm  coffee 
with  some  biscuits  before  the  strange  guest,  Betty  Cer- 
tain addressed  her  thus : 

"  I  have  read  the  papers  you  gave  me  and  have  de- 


286  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN'. 

cided  that  it  is  my  duty  to  act  towards  you  strictly  as 
Arthur  Lovett  would  desire  were  he  present. 

"  Your  great  crime  was  against  him,  and  was  the 
outgrowth  of  a  relation  more  sinful  upon  his  part  than 
upon  yours.  I  am  confident  that  he  would  desire  me 
on  his  behalf  to  overlook  this  act,  and  if  I  cannot 
forgive  that  stroke  which  has  shrouded  my  life  in 
sorrow,  at  least  to  take  no  step  looking  to  its  punish- 
ment. No  one  but  myself  knows  or  suspects  your 
connection  with  that  act.  Your  other  crimes  having 
been  merely  attempts,  I  do  not  consider  it  incumbent 
on  me  to  disclose. 

"  You  are,  therefore,  safe  ;  but  it  is  necessary  that  we 
should  have  some  further  conversation,  in  order  that  I 
may  exactly  determine  upon  my  duty  towards  you,  as 
the  executrix  of  Arthur  Lovett.  We  are  neither  of  us 
in  a  condition  to  consider  that  matter  now.  You  can 
stay  here,  entirely  undisturbed,  to-day.  You  will  find 
all  that  you  wish  in  the  cupboard,  and  your  papers  are 
in  this  drawer.  You  can  lock  the  door  if  you  desire.  I 
must  go  to  the  Lodge,  lest  my  absence  arouse  inquiry. 
I  will  come  to  see  you  at  sundown.  Rest  as  much  as 
you  can,  for  we  have  much  to  think  of  and  decide 
upon." 

Betty  Certain  went  to  the  Lodge,  and  faithfully  ob- 
served the  directions  she  had  given  to  the  woman  she 
had  left  in  her  cottage.  She  sought  simply  rest  and 
recuperation.  It  was  a  matter  of  surprise  among  the 
house  servants  that  Miss  Betty  found  time  that  day  to 
sleep.  The  affairs  of  the  plantation  were  left  for  once 
to  take  care  of  themselves. 


THE  EXECUTRIX.  38? 

As  the  sun  went  down  she  set  out  for  the  old  cottage. 
Arriving  there  she  found  the  door  closed,  but  not 
locked,  and,  on  entering,  she  found  it  empty.  The  fire 
was  still  burning  on  the  hearth,  and  there  were  evident 
indications  that  the  woman  had  prepared  a  meal  during 
the  evening,  Betty  concluded  that  she  had  become 
suspicious  of  a  design  upon  her  part  to  betray  her  to 
the  authorities,  and  was  in  hiding  somewhere  in  sight 
of  the  house  at  that  instant,  and  would  probably  come 
in  when  she  found  her  suspicions  unfounded.  In  this 
surmise  "^he  was  correct*  and,  after  sitting  by  the  hearth 
a  few  moments,  she  heard  footsteps  carefully  approach- 
ing the  house. 

"Come  in,"  she  said,  in  a  loud  tone;  "if  I  had  in- 
tended to  do  you  an  injury  you  would  not  have  seen 
the  sunshine  to-day." 

The  woman  came  in  very  much  abashed  at  the  base- 
less suspicion  she  had  displayed.  Betty  motioned  to  a 
chair  opposite,  and  she  sat  down  in  silence.  The  two 
women  scanned  each  other  narrowly  a  long  time  before 
either  spoke. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII, 


HAGAR. 


AFTER  a  time  Betty  Certain  spoke.  It  cost  her 
an  effort  to  master  her  repugnance  to  the  blood- 
stained woman  before  her;  but  she  conceived ^it  a  part 
of  her  duty  to  inform  her  of  all  that  could  affect  her 
interests  or  those  of  her  children.     So  she  said : 

"  I  have  brought  with  me  all  the  papers  in  my  pos- 
session referring  to  Arthur  Lovett  and  his  estate  which 
may  concern  you." 

She  took  a  bundle  from  her  pocket  and  read — one 
after  another — the  will  of  Arthur  Lovett,  the  letters  of 
Manuel  Hunter,  and  a  copy  of  the  record  in  the  case 
in  which  Bella  and  her  children  had  been  declared  the 
property  of  the  estate  of  Peter  Lovett.  Then  she  told 
her  all  that  had  been  done  in  the  matter  since  Arthur's 
death,  so  far  as  she  knew  it. 

Then  she  handed  to  Bella  the  packet  found  in  the 
drawer  of  Arthur  Lovett's  desk  by  Manuel  Hunter. 
The  woman  had  been  sitting  upon  a  chair  in  front  of 
Betty  Certain,  but  as  the  latter  read,  she  bowed  her 
head  lower  and  lower,  until  she  finally  slid  from  the 
chair  to  the  floor,  and  was  now  lying  with  her  head 
bowed  upon  her  knees  at  the  feet  of  Betty  Certain,  her 
form  convulsed  with  sobs  and  groans. 

It  was  with  difficulty  that  she  could  be  induced  to 


HA  GAR.  289 

take  the  packet  which  was  offered  her.  She  shrank 
away  from  it,  protesting  that  she  was  not  worthy  to  take 
anything  which  Arthur  Lovett's  hand  had  touched. 

Betty  Certain  was  angry  at  what  she  deemed  the 
woman's   hypocrisy. 

"  But  he  was  not  too  good  for  you  to  kill !"  she  said 
sharply. 

"  I  would  have  died  before  I  would  have  harmed 
him,  if  I  had  known  all  this,"  said  the  w^oman  flushing 
up ;  "  and  I  ought  to  have  known  it,  too,  for  he  had 
never  deceived  me — never.  It  was  just  my  own  wicked- 
ness— all  my  own.  Why  did  n't  you  kill  me,  Betty  Cer- 
tain, and  not  let  me  live  to  know  all  this }  It  would 
have  been  mercy.  Nothing  could  be  worse  than  what 
I  suffer  now — notJihig  I  No,  I  'm  not  taking  on.  What 
did  I  do  it  for .?  Well,  I  '11  tell  you,  Betty  Certain. 
You  sha'  n't  have  a  worse  opinion  of  me  than  I  deserve, 
an'  that  's  bad  enough.  It  's  no  use  now.  All  the 
harm  's  done  I  could  ever  do ;  but  I  'd  like  to  tell  you 
how  it  all  happened.  Besides,  I  want  to  show  you  just 
where  and  how  I  've  lived,  so  that  my  children  may 
have  the  benefit  of  that  will  you  've  just  read.  I  was 
bought  for  one  of  Arthur  Lovett's  sisters  when  only  a 
chit  of  a  girl.  She  saw  me  when  they  were  going 
through  Richmond  taking  her  to  school,  an'  took  a 
fancy  to  me,  an'  nothing  would  do  but  she  must  have 
me  to  wait  on  her.  I  was,  perhaps,  fourteen,  and  she 
a  year  or  two  older.  Her  father  paid  a  round  price  for 
me,  you  may  be  sure,  for  I  was  counted  a  fancy  article. 

"Miss  Nannie  wasn't  the  brightest  of  gals,  nor  the 

most  studious.     In  order  to  spur  her  up  to  greater  effort, 
N 


290  ^  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

the  teacher  would  frequently  say  that  '  Belle  could  get 
such  lessons  without  trouble ;'  that  '  Belle  would  excel 
her,  if  she  had  a  chance,'  and  ail  such  talk.  I  heard  this, 
and,  being  naturally  proud  and  aml^itious,  I  got  the 
stupid  girl  to  teach  me  what  she  knew,  and  very  soon 
was  leading  her  in  her  own  studies.  Instead  of  being 
angry  or  ashamed  at  being  thus  outstripped,  Miss  Nan- 
nie was  gratified  at  the  fact  of  being  spared  some  of  the 
labor  of  study  by  my  ability  to  assist  her.  It  became 
one  of  my  tasks  to  learn  and  repeat  her  lessons  to  her 
until  she  partly  understood  them.  She  used  to  boast 
of  me  among  her  companions  as  her  *  pony,'  and  I  was 
frequently  called  upon  to  show  off  my  acquirements 
before  a  few  of  her  particular  cronies,  and  was  some- 
times subjected  to  punishment  for  failing  to  make  her 
understand  my  explanations.  I  had  my  revenge  by  re- 
fusing to  assist  her  at  all,  and  threatening  to  disclose 
her  conduct,  in  teaching  me  what  I  had  learned.  This 
threat  was  sufficient,  and,  in  the  main,  I  had  a  very 
agreeable  time  with  my  young  mistress  at  the  school. 
When  she  finally  graduated  and  went  back  to  the  plan- 
tation, after  three  years,  the  slave  was  far  better  edu- 
cated than  the  mistress,  and  I  was  treated  by  her  more 
like  an  equal  than  a  servant, 

"  I  was  petted,  proud,  and  vain.  I  did  not  know 
what  slavery  was.  I  knew  that  I  belonged  to  my 
mistress,  and  that  she  could  sell  me  if  she  would — or 
her  father,  for  I  did  not  even  know  who  owned  me ;  but 
I  did  not  dream  that  I  could  ever  be  anything  but  a 
petted  servant.  I  had  the  run  of  the  old  house  at 
Heptwilde.     My  sojourn  at  the  school  had  given  me  a 


HA  GAR.  291 

love  for  books,  and  the  library  was  a  mine  of  joy  to  me. 
Here,  buried  in  a  great  arm-chair,  made  of  broom-straw 
by  some  ingenious  plantation  hand,  I  used  to  spend 
hours  at  a  time.  My  young  mistress,  jealous  of  her 
rights,  would  not  allow  any  one  else  to  claim  my  ser- 
vices, and  '  Miss  Belle,'  as  the  other  servants  called  me, 
was  never  .  required  to  do  more  than  attend  to  her 
wants.  When  my  light  tasks  were  over,  I  was  sure  to 
find  my  way  to  the  library.  The  members  of  the  fam- 
ily who  were  at  home  were  not  much  given  to  read- 
ing, and  I  was  nearly  sure  to  be  undisturbed  in  the 
dusty,  cobwebbed  old  room.  I  learned  that  the  books 
themselves  had  been  mainly  the  property  of  an  old 
bachelor  uncle  of  my  mistress,  who  had  died  years 
before  and  had  left  his  library  to  his  nephew  and 
namesake,  Arthur  Lovett,  who  was  then  at  college. 

"  And  here  one  morning,  sitting  in  that  old  arm-chair, 
Arthur  Lovett  came  upon  me.  I  had  on  one  of  my 
mistress's  dresses  which  she  had  given  me,  and  was  read- 
ing a  volume  of  poems — Byron's — I  remember.  He 
came  and  rested  his  arms  upon  the  back  of  the  chair, 
and  said,  in  a  quizzing  tone : 

"'Is  that  the  literature  they  read  at  Belleville.?' — 
which  was  the  name  of  the  school  my  young  mistress 
had  attended. 

"  I  started  up  in  confusion  and  tried  to  utter  some 
excuse,  but  could  not. 

" '  I  beg  pardon,'  he  said,  as  soon  as  he  saw  my 
face,  '  I  thought  you  were  my  sister  Nannie,  whom  I 
have  not  seen  since  my  return.  Excuse  my  rudeness, 
and  allow  me  to  present  myself — Mr.  Arthur  Lovett,  at 


292  ^  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

your  service.     I  was    not    aware    that    any  young  lady 
was  staying  with  my  sister.' 

I  am  not  a  young  lady,'  I  managed  to  say. 
Not  a  young  lady!'  he  rejoined,  with  an  amused 
smile.     'Then,   pray,  what  are  you.?' 

"  He  evidently  took  me  in  my  fright  and  embarrass- 
ment for  some  overgrown  child,  who  had  only  self- 
possession  enough  to  deny  young  ladyhood.  The  re- 
flection piqued  my  pride,  for  I  had  not  unfrequently 
compared  myself  with  my  mistress  and  her  companions, 
both  in  appearance  and  demeanor,  and  arrived  at  con- 
clusions by  no  means  flattering  to  them. 

"  I  answered  humbly  enough,  however,  '  I  am  Miss 
Nannie's  girl  Belle,  if  you  please,  sir.' 

"'What!'  he  exclaimed,  'you  my  sister's  maid.-* 
You  a — a — a  slave.'*' 

"I  answered,  'Yes,  sir,'  and  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life  I  felt  the  degradation  of  my  position. 

"  He  gazed  at  me  awhile  in  silence,  and  then  asked : 

"'And  do  you  read  Byron,  my  girl.?' 

"  I  answered  quickly  that  my  mistress  had  allowed 
me  to  learn  to  read  at  school,  but  she  knew  nothing 
of  my  coming  to  the  library. 

"*Well,'  he  said  good-naturedly,  'you  shall  pay  for 
trespassing  on  my  dominions  by  reading  to  me  till  I 
see  fit  to  dismiss  you.  Sit  down,'  said  he,  motioning 
to  the  old  arm-chair  while  he  took  another,  '  make  your 
own  selection  and  go  on.  I  may  be  allowed  to  smoke, 
I  suppose.?'  he  added,  as  he  lighted  a  cigar. 

"  There  was  not  much  in  it.  I  had  served  a  sim- 
pleton for  years,  and  had  been  the  creature  of  another's 


HA  GAR.  293 

whims  and  caprices  all  my  life.  I  do  n't  know  why, 
but  I  had  never  felt  what  it  was  to  be  a  slave  till 
that  moment.     I  had  never  been  so  debased  before. 

"'Well,  girl,'  said  my  new  master,  'begin,  or  I  shall 
think  you  were  just  shamming.' 

"  My  blood  boiled.  I  know  my  face  must  have 
flushed.  I  would  let  him  see  that  I  was  not  a  fool  if  I 
was  a  nigger.  I  would  read,  as  his  own  sister  could 
not.  I  opened  to  'Mazeppa,'  and  read  its  marvelous 
measures  until  hearer,  library,  servitude,  and  life  were 
all  forgotten,  and  I  was  the  impassioned  but  helpless 
burden  of  the  wild  horse,  borne  'away!  away!'  to 
love  and  empire  in  the  wilderness. 

"I  finished  the  poem  before  I  stopped.  Then  I 
looked  up  and  blushed,  for  I  had  forgotten  his  presence 
and  had  been  reading  to  myself.  His  cigar  had  gone 
out  and  he  was  holding  it  absently  in  his  fingers. 

"  For  a  while  he  was  silent,  then  he  said : 

"'And  you  say  you  are  my  sister's  maid.-*' 

"'Yes,  sir.' 

"'And  your  name  is  Bella.-*' 

"'Yes,  sir.' 

"  Somehow  I  could  not  say  '  Marse  Arthur  *  to  him, 
though  I  tried  all  I  knew  to  do  it,  then  and  after- 
wards. 

" '  Well,  Bella,  you  are  at  liberty  to  come  here  as 
often  as  you  like  and  read  any  book  you  choose.  This 
is  my  den  and  no  one  will  interrupt  you.' 

"  He  rose,  and,  with  as  courteous  a  '  Good-morning  ' 
as  if  I  had  been  the  finest  lady  in  the  land,  left  me 
there  alone. 


294:  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

"From  that  moment  I  loved  Arthur  Lovett  with  all 
the  intensity  of  a  wild,  ungoverned  nature,  and  I  spared 
no  pains  to  secure  his  love  in  return.  What  had  I 
to  lose  ?  My  good  name  ?  I  was  only  a  slave  and 
had  no  use  for  a  good  name.  I  loved  Arthur  Lovett, 
and  Arthur  Lovett  should  love  me  in  return.  That 
was  my  thought. 

"  I  will  not  try  to  tell  you  all  the  means  I  used  to 
secure  his  love.  Enough  that  I  was  not  scrupulous. 
I  played  for  a  kingdom  and  an  Antony  at  once,  and 
with  no  chance  of  loss  in  case  of  failure.  Of  course  I 
won — you  know  that.  I  gave  a  fierce,  wild,  jealous 
love,  and  received  a  warm,  tender,  self-sacrificing  devo- 
tion that  counted  everything  as  dross  except  that  which 
ministered  to  my  enjoyment.  Arthur  Lovett  became  a 
servant  of  servants  unto  his  sister's  maid.  I  was  proud 
of  my  conquest.  I  boasted  of  it,  and  through  the  love 
of  the  only  son  I  became  queen  regnant  at  Hept- 
wilde. 

"  You  know,  I  suppose,  what  followed ;  much  I  am 
sure  you  do.  I  might  have  had  freedom  then,  but  I 
despised  it  without  Arthur  Lovett.  I  was  determined 
to  have  him  for  my  own.  I  did  not  care  for  freedom 
till  after  we  had  children.  I  did  n't  mind  hardship 
or  indignity  so  long  as  I  had  Arthur  and  he  was  true 
to  me.  His  father  and  his  sisters  schemed  in  every  way 
to  separate  us.  You  have  probably  heard  the  story. 
It  was  in  vain.  All  the  force  and  tenacity  of  his  ten- 
der, trustful,  careless  nature  seemed  absorbed  by  his 
passion  for  me. 

"When  we   came    to   have    children,   I   loved   them 


HAGAR.  ^  295 

hardly  less  wildly  and  fiercely  than  I  did  him.  I  trem- 
bled at  the  future  which  lay  before  them.  His  friends 
thought  they  saw  in  this  a  means  by  which  they  might 
separate  us.  They  offered  me  and  my  children  liberty 
if  I  would  go  away  from  him  and  remain  absent.  I 
agreed  to  do  so.  I  did  not  intend  to  keep  my  bargain. 
I  thought  that  if  I  was  once  free — I  and  my  children — 
I  could  never  be  enslaved  again.  I  always  thought  so 
until  the  Court  decided  otherwise.  I  thought  that  was 
a  shame  then,  and  never  really  believed  it  till  you  read 
it  to  me  to-day. 

"  Well,  they  took  me  North,  to  New  York,  and  I  was 
liberated.  A  year  after  I  returned,  and  Arthur  came 
back  to  me  as  readily  as  a  piece  of  loose  iron  to  a 
magnet.  They  told  me  it  would  endanger  my  freedom 
if  I  staid  ;  but  I  laughed  at  them. 

"After  a  time  we  came  up  here,  and  you  know 
what  our  life  was.  I  believe  you  never  liked  me  and 
I  certainly  never  trusted  you.  It  would  have  been 
well  if  I  had.  But  I  did  not  hate  you  until  I  had 
been  taken  away  and  sold  by  the  executor.  Before  I 
went  I  agreed  that  if  Arthur  would  buy  me  and  my 
children,  as  he  promised  he  would,  and  take  us  North 
and  emancipate  us,  I  would  stay  there.  He  did  not  say 
a  word  about  you,  and  I  did  not  know  that  he  had 
any  intention  of  marrying  at  all.  I  thought  that  if 
he  took  me  North,  I  would  find  a  way  to  keep  him 
there,  though  I  had  agreed  that  he  might  come  back 
to  his  sisters. 

"We  had  had  a  heap  of  trouble  first  and  last,  as  you 
know.     And    although   it    had    come    through    my    own 


296  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

wickedness — perhaps  for  that  very  reason — I  had  lost 
confidence  in  every  human  being  except  Arthur  Lovett, 
and  at  last  in  him  also.  I  thought  I  had  been  injured, 
persecuted,  deceived,  and  dragged  about,  all  because  I 
happened  to  be  a  slave,  and  the  man  I  loved  was 
free. 

"I  never  could  make  it  out,  Miss  Betty,  why  you 
should  have  the  right  to  marry  Arthur  Lovett,  if  you 
were  both  agreed,  and  I  should  not.  I  felt  that  it 
was  wrong;  that  God  made  me  to  love  Arthur  and 
him  to  love  me,  and  so  I  fought  and  suffered,  and 
would  not  give  up  when  all  the  world  was  against  me. 
And  Arthur,  he  was  just  wax  in  my  hand.  I  would 
have  been  content  to  have  been  his  mistress  and  have 
remained  a  slave  forever,  but  for  the  children. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Betty,  if  you  had  children  bright  and 
beautiful  as  mine,  how  would  you  like  to  see  them 
doomed  to  the  life  I  've  led,  or  a  lower  one,  if  not 
quite  so  bad } — brutes  instead  of  devils — that 's  the  dif- 
ference. 

"  Well,  I  went  peaceably  to  be  sold  by  the  execu- 
tor. Toinette  was  in  arms  then,  you  know,  so  we 
were  sold  together.  We  were  bought  by  a  poor  white 
cuss  for  Buck  Lloyd,  who  had  a  plantation  over  the 
line  in  Virginia,  not  more  than  thirty  or  forty  miles 
from  here,  though  he  lived  in  Alabama.  He  brought 
us  first  to  his  plantation,  mighty  careful  and  secret-like. 
I  thought  he  was  just  acting  as  Arthur's  agent,  and  so 
made  no  remonstrance  when  he  changed  my  name  to 
Mabel.  He  probably  did  not  give  me  credit  for  know- 
ing half  as  much  as  I  did.     I  am  satisfied  now  that  his 


HA  GAR  297 

object  in  buying  and  hiding  me  was  to  speculate  on 
Arthur's  attachment  for  me.  Thinking  him  Arthur's 
friend,  however,  I  compHed  with  his  wishes  and  re- 
mained entirely  unknown  except  as  his  cook,  Mabel. 

"After  a  while,  I  heard  a  rumor  among  some  of 
the  niggers  that  Arthur  Lovett  was  about  to  marry. 
Then  it  struck  me  that  all  this  executor  business  was 
a  made-up  thing  to  impose  on  me,  get  me  out  of  the 
way,  and  off  his  hands,  and  at  the  same  time  raise  a 
little  ready  money.  I  heard  it  was  you  he  was  going 
to  marry,  too.  Miss  Betty,  and  I  remembered  his  duel 
with  Bill  Price,  and  that  affair  with  the  Committee,  and 
it  all  came  up  to  strengthen  my  jealous  suspicion.  I 
don't  know  but  I  could  have  stood  it  to  have  had  him 
marry,  if  he  had  first  freed  me  and  my  children,  or  if  I 
had  known  he  would  do  it — though  that  would  have 
been  hard  enough  to  bear;  but  coming  with  the  idea 
that  he  had  betrayed  and  sold  me  and  my  children, 
made  me  mad — raging  mad. 

"  I  left  Toinette  in  my  cook's  hut  and  came  to  see 
if  it  were  true,  prepared  to  do  whatever  the  circum- 
stances would  allow — anything  and  everything  that  a 
woman  well  nigh,  if  not  quite,  crazed  could  do. 

"  I  came  to  the  Lodge  after  nightfall,  stole  into  the 
secret  room,  and  opened  the  door  into  the  wardrobe. 
I  was  there  and  heard  your  talk  in  the  library.  I 
heard  him  laugh  and  jest  with  you,  about  the  dress 
you  fancied.  I  saw  him  caress  you  and  bid  you 
good-night — for  the  last  time,  he  said,  lightly — and 
then  I  determined  that  his  words  should  come  true — 
that  so  it  should  be.     All  my  fears  and  suspicions  had 

18 


298  A  ROYAL   GENTLEMAN, 

been  confirmed.  He  had  sold  me  and  my  children 
into  slavery  to  get  us  out  of  your  way  and  his  sisters'. 
Perhaps  those  very  clothes  were  bought  with  the  price 
of  our  blood.  He  filled  his  pipe  and  lit  it.  I  knew 
he  would  sleep  before  it  was  smoked  out.  He  had 
given  me  when  he  came  back  from  Europe  a  trian- 
gular Italian  poniard,  which  had  belonged  to  a  noted 
brigand,  with  the  remark  that  I  might  need  it  some- 
time for  defense.  It  had  generally  been  in  the  drawer 
of  his  desk,  for  I  seldom  carried  it;  but  when  I  went 
to  be  sold  that  last  time,  he  brought  it  to  me  and 
told  me  to  take  it,  as  insult  or  injury  to  myself  or 
children  might  demand  its  use. 

"  So  I  had  it  hidden  then  in  my  bosom.  You 
know,  Betty  Certain  —  bitterly  know  —  what  followed. 
AVhen  the  deed  was  done,  I  thought  the  weapon  had 
well  fulfilled  the  purposes  for  which  it  had  been  given 
me. 

"  After  that  I  gave  up  pretty  much  all  hope  of  free 
dom.  I  resigned — no,  not  resigned,  but  abandoned 
myself  to  the  idea  that  my  children  must  just  follow 
in  my  footsteps  and  gather  only  the  bitter  fruits  of 
slavery  and  sin. 

'*  My  new  master,  despairing  of  any  speculation  by 
reason  of  my  connection  with  Arthur  Lovett,  took  me 
to  his  home  in  Alabama,  where  he  died  soon  after,  but 
not  before  he  had  learned  to  fear  me  and,  because  of 
this  mainly,  to  treat  me  well. 

"  I  had  always  kept  the  deed  of  the  plantation  at 
the  Lodge,  which  was  made  in  trust  to  Arthur  Lovett, 
for  my  use.     I  had  a  notion  that  some  time  it  would  be 


HA  GAR.  299 

of  value  to  my  children — I  had  given  up  all  hope  for 
myself — though  I  had  lost  sight  of  the  two  older  ones. 
During  this  time  I  scarcely  felt  a  regret  for  the  terrible 
crime  I  had  committed,  though  I  was  not  unfrequently 
very  anxious  in  regard  to  my  own  safety.  Considering 
Arthur  to  be  guilty  of  all  the  wrong  and  treachery  which 
I  supposed  to  have  been  practiced  toward  me,  I  easily 
convinced  myself  that  I  had  only  meted  out  to  him 
the  justice  he  deserved. 

"  At  the  sale  of  Lloyd's  estate  I  was  bought  by  an 
agent  of  Manuel  Hunter,  George  Rawson — who  was  on 
the  search,  he  said,  of  Belle  Lovett  and  her  children. 
He  had  known  me  well  when  we  lived  here  at  the 
Lodge,  but  my  hair  had  turned  gray  with  sorrow,  and 
he  did  not  recognize  in  the  care-worn  Mabel  Lloyd,  the 
noted  cook  of  Buck  Lloyd  the  gambler  and  speculator, 
the  once  blithe  and  handsome  Belle  Lovett,  mistress 
of  Arthur  Lovett  and  queen  of  Lovett  Lodge,  as  the 
people  around  us  used  to  call  me. 

"  He  asked  me  a  great  many  questions  about  the 
woman  he  was  after,  and  I  made  up  a  story  about  her 
which  he  fully  believed,  and  which  I  am  satisfied  put 
them  finally  on  the  wrong  track.  As  I  was  going  cheap 
at  the  sale  on  account  of  my  old  appearance,  as  well 
as  my  reputation  as  a  girl  of  desperate  temper,  he  bought 
us  on  a  speculation,  I  think — me  and  Toinette. 

"  I  was  brought  back  to  Perham  and  subjected  to 
the  closest  cross-examination  by  old  Manuel  Hunter. 
He  had  also  seen  me  frequently  at  the  Lodge,  as  he  was 
the  close  friend  of  Arthur  Lovett,  but  he  did  not 
recognize  me  at  all.     I  repeated  my  story  about  Belle 


300  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

Lovett,  and  deceived  him  as  easily  as  I  had  Rawson. 
He  took  me  from  the  latter  and  put  me  in  the  kitchen, 
as  I  had  a  great  reputation  as  a  cook,  which,  indeed,  I 
deserved,  for  I  had  studied  cookery  to  please  Arthur, 
who  was  something  of  an  epicure,  as  were  all  his  family. 

"  During  this  time  I  had  carried  about  in  my  slave's 
bundle  the  dress  I  had  taken  from  the  library  that 
night.  I  took  it  just  to  spite  you,  to  let  you  know  that 
I  meant  to  hit  you  as  well  as  him,  and  I  used  to  gloat 
over  it  by  hours  at  a  time,  as  the  token  of  my  revenge. 
I  thought  a  thousand  times  I  would  burn  it  up,  lest 
it  should  betray  me,  but  yet  I  did  not.  If  my  bun- 
dle had  been  searched  by  either  Rawson  or  old  Marse 
Manuel,  I  should  have  been  lost. 

"  As  it  was,  I  was  in  constant  fear.  I  thought  the 
motive  of  Manuel  Hunter  was  to  discover  Arthur  Lov- 
ett's  murderer,  though  it  would  seem  from  what  I  have 
since  learned,  that  it  was  to  get  possession  of  the  deed 
of  trust,  and  so  perfect  his  title  to  the  Lodge. 

"  I  also  took  with  me  part  of  the  keys  which  I  had 
in  my  possession  as  housekeeper  at  the  Lodge.  I  did 
this  not  with  any  idea  of  using  them  afterwards,  but 
from  a  sort  of  jealousy,  to  prevent  their  falling  into  the 
hands  of  any  woman  who  might  come  into  my  place. 
They  seemed  a  sort  of  badge  of  the  ownership  which  I 
had  in  the  premises.  They  were  to  me  what  the  crown 
is  to  the  sovereign.  When  I  wanted  to  get  at  Toinette 
and  Geoffrey  Hunter  afterwards,  I  found  that  instead  of 
new  locks,  duplicates  of  the  keys  had  been  procured,  and 
I  could  therefore  enter  the  Lodge  at  pleasure.  The  be- 
lief that  the  house  was  haunted,  arising  from  my  having 


HA  GAR.  801 

been  seen  a  few  times  during  my  nightly  visits,  greatly 
assisted  me  in  my  designs. 

*'  One  side  of  the  fire-place  in  the  secret  room  opens 
outward  under  the  building  upon  strong  hinges  by 
means  of  a  handle  fastened  into  the  soapstone  of  which 
it  is  made.  On  the  inside  it  is  worked  by  moving  the 
right  andiron  to  one  side.  It  was  made  by  Arthur  on 
purpose  to  afford  a  safe  concealment  of  our  relations, 
and  a  secure  place  of  retreat  in  case  any  danger  should 
threaten,  as  on  that  night  when  Bill  Price  and  his  gang 
searched  the  house.  I  was  in  there  with  my  children 
all  the  while.  It  was  the  only  time  we  were  compelled 
to  use  it  for  that  purpose,  but  it  was  our  ordinary  ren- 
dezvous, and  in  its  security  were  passed  the  happiest 
moments  of  my  life.  It  has  been  my  haunt  when- 
ever opportunity  served  since,  and  possesses  a  horrible 
fascination  for  me,  though  I  have  never  entered  it  since 
that  night  without  the  most  overwhelming  terror.  I 
always  seem  to  see  Arthur  Lovett  coming  through  the 
door  in  the  wardrobe,  with  his  great  dark  eyes  fixed 
upon  me  in  the  deepest  sadness.  He  never  seems 
angry  at  me,  only  so  sorrowful  and  pitying — oh,  God  ! 
I  now  know  why  he  should  be  sad  rather  than  angry. 
How  could  I  wrong  him  with  the  thought  of  treach- 
ery! 

"  As  years  went  on  and  Miss  Ruthy  got  Marse  Man- 
uel's promise  that  Toinette  and  I  should  be  freed,  at 
least  when  he  died,  I  began  to  hope  once  more,  but 
when  he  gave  Toinette  to  young  Marse  Geoffrey,  and  he 
brought  her  here  to  Lovett  Lodge,  I  was  just  frantic. 
I  determined  to  kill  both  Geofi"rey  and  old  Manuel  as 


302  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

well  as  my  child — I  would  kill  her  first  though.  She 
should  never  tread  the  path  which  I  had  come.  I 
would  send  her  soul  white  and  pure  to  heaven  before 
vice  and  crime  had  smutched  it,  if  it  separated  us 
forever.  I  thought  I  could  not  be  worsted;  I  was 
doomed  now — I  knew  that ;  but  she,  my  last,  my  dar- 
ling— she  should  be  saved ! 

"  You  know  I  failed  in  the  attempt  I  made  to  do  this. 
When  you  came  and  watched  over  her  that  discouraged 
me.  I  used  to  come  and  look  at  her,  and  would  some- 
times think  that  I  ought  to  carry  my  first  plan  into  exe- 
cution, but  I  never  tried  to  harm  her  afterwards,  nor 
indeed  any  one  until  you  came  into  possession  of  the 
Lodge,  and  I  thought  you  were  enjoying  what  was 
justly  and  truly  mine — the  fruits  of  a  robbery  of  which 
we  were  the  victims,  I  and  my  children.  I  meant  to 
have  killed  you  and  then  to  have  destroyed  myself. 

"And,  now,  Betty  Certain,  you  know  just  how  bad 
Belle  Lovett  has  been.  I  can't  thank  you  for  sparing 
me  last  night,  for  I  'm  sorry  you  did  it ;  but  you  are 
better  than  I  ever  thought  you,  or  you  could  not  have 
done  it.  There  is  one  reason  for  my  telling  you  this 
story  that  I  have  not  spoken  of  before — I  have  a  request 
to  make  of  you  :  that  you  will  never,  unless  their  interests 
shall  absolutely  require  it,  reveal  to  my  children  the 
atrocity  of  my  acts.  I  shall  not  live  to  see  them.  I  do 
not  wish  to;  but  you  will  find  them.  You  will  give 
them  what  their  father  intended  them  to  have.  Promise, 
now,  that  you  will  tell  them  nothing  that  will  make  them 
think  worse  of  their  mother  than  they  have  done  before. 
Will  you  do  it.  Miss  Betty  .>" 


HA  GAR.  303 

"Poor  woman,"  said  Betty,  sadly;  "you  can  hardly 
be  blamed,  though  you  committed  an  awful  crime.  So 
far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  forgive  you  freely,  and  will  do 
all  that  I  can  to  hide  your  act  from  the  knowledge  of 
vour  children." 

"Thank  you.  Miss  Betty,"  said  the  woman,  humbly; 
"  I  could  not  have  asked  forgiveness  from  one  whom  I 
had  so  deeply  injured,  but  my  heart  feels  lighter,  now 
that  you  have  granted  it." 

"  Now,  then,"  said  Betty,  as  if  she  would  leave  an 
unpleasant  subject,  "we  must  talk  of  the  future.  You 
remember  the  will  provides  for  your  emancipation,  as 
well  as  that  of  your  children." 

"Does  it.^"  said  Belle,  absently;  "I  had  forgotten. 
I'm  getting  mighty  dull  at  best.  Would  you  mind  let- 
ting me  take  that  packet  and  these  papers,  and  leaving 
me  until  morning.^  Perhaps  I  could  think  of  something 
that  should  be  done  by  that  time.  It's  a  long  time 
since  I  have  read  or  written  much  ;  but  it  seems  as  if  I 
could  make  out  almost  anything  in  Arthur's  hand." 

Betty  Certain  immediately  rose,  laid  the  papers  in  the 
chair  before  the  woman,  and  prepared  to  depart.  As 
she  approached  the  door  Belle  called  to  her,  and  said : 

"You  will  not  forget,  Miss  Betty.?" 

She  turned  and  asked, 

"Forget  what.?" 

"What  you  promised  me,"  said  the  woman. 

"  Certainly  not,  and  I  will  come  back  by  an  hour 
after  sun-up  in  the  morning." 

"And  you  are  sure  you  forgive  me?"  asked  the  wo- 
man, tremulously. 


S04  A   ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

Betty  Certain  came  back  and  stood  beside  the  bowed 
and  shrinking  figure  on  the  floor.  Reaching  down  she 
put  her  hand  upon  her  head,  and,  raising  her  eyes,  said 
solemnly : 

"  Only  as  I  forgive  thee,  poor  deceived  woman,  may 
God  forgive  me,  who  might  have  been  worse  than  you, 
had  I  been  thus  tempted." 

The  tears  burst  from  the  woman's  eyes,  and,  seizing 
the  hand  which  rested  on  her  head,  she  covered  it  with 
kisses,  murmuring  between  her  sobs: 

"  God  bless  you  !  Good-by,  Betty  Certain  !  God 
bless  you!" 

"Good-by,"  said  Betty  Certain  confusedly,  and  hur- 
ried away.  "  Thank  God,  her  blood  is  not  on  my 
hands,"  she  said,  as  she  came  near  the  scene  of  the  last 
night's  encounter.  "  God  judge  the  poor  creature.  For 
my  part,  I  can't  make  out  whether  she  is  more  sinned 
against  or  sinning.  She  has  done  wrong,  undoubtedly, 
much  wrong;  but,  surely,  somebody  before  her  did  not 
do  right.  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but,  the  more  I  look 
at  it,  the  more  it  seems  as  if  nothing  but  evil  came  out 
of  slavery.  I  'm  more  'n  ever  of  the  notion  Gran'ther 
Ezra  was  right — '  It 's  better  to  be  poor  than  to  have 
more  souls  than  yer  own  to  answer  for.'  Somebody's 
responsible  for  Belle  Lovett  being  what  she  was,  an  so 
becoming  what  she  is,  an  I  'm  thankful  that  that  some- 
body's not  Betty  Certain,  any  way.  Poor  girl !  poor 
.girl !  though,  after  all,  I  was  wrong  to  think  of  stepping 
into  her  place,  an'  bein'  Arthur  Lovett's  wife.  She  was 
his  wife,  I  'm  sure  of  it  now,  in  God's  sight.  I  know 
he  always  felt  so;  but  I  thought  it  was  only  his  kind- 


HAGAR.  305 

heartedness.  He  was  weak,  not  bad.  He  did  not  mean 
to  wrong  Belle,  nor  did  I,  and  yet  perhaps  we  did.  An' 
so  God  punished  us — all  at  once — Arthur  and  Belle  and 
me,  and  the  somebody  or  something  whose  agency  was 
long  before  ours — who  sowed  the  seed,  of  which  this  was 
the  harvest — all  in  that  one  act  of  hers.  Poor  girl  \ 
Poor  girl !  I  was  half  afraid  I  was  doing  wrong  to  hide 
her  crime  and  cheat  the  law,  but  now  I  know  that 
only  God  can  judge  aright  such  as  she  is.  Poor 
woman !" 

The  next  morning,  when  Betty  Certain  went,  "  an 
hour  after  sun-up,"  as  she  had  promised,  to  her  old 
home,  the  door  was  shut,  and  there  remained  no  sign  of 
life  therein.  Her  heart  stood  still  with  foreboding. 
Had  the  woman  died  of  the  injuries  she  had  received 
in  the  struggle.  Her  head  was  terribly  swollen,  and 
her  face  disfigured,  yesterday.  Betty's  heart  misgave 
her  that  she  had  not  attended  better  to  her  condition. 
She  remembered  then,  the  tone  in  which  the  woman  had 
said,  Good-by.  It  was  the  hopeless,  solemn  one,  in 
which  we  bid  farewell  to  those  on  whom  visible  is  the 
seal  of  death. 

She  hurried  on  and  opened  the  door.  The  room 
was  still  and  empty.  On  the  chair  by  which  the  woman 
had  sat  was  the  bundle  of  papers  she  had  brought  yes- 
terday, together  with  those  she  had  taken  from  Belle 
Lovett's  neck,  the  envelope  which  had  been  around  the 
packet  she  had  given  to  Belle,  and  a  small  locket.  She 
took  up  the  latter  and  opened  it.  It  was  the  duplicate 
of  the  one  Belle  had  worn,  and  contained  a  portrait  of 
her  when  she  was  young. 


306  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

A  slip  of  paper  dropped  out,  on  which  this  was 
written  : 

"  I  desire  that  this  may  be  given  to  my  daughter, 
Toinette.  Belle  Lovett." 

The  handwriting  was  delicate  and  refined,  though  it 
had  the  constrained  and  uncertain  appearance  which 
characterizes  that  of  one  long  unaccustomed  to  the 
pen. 

Betty  Certain  closed  the  locket,  and  looking  again  at 
the  bundle  of  papers  in  the  chair,  saw  a  note  addressed 
to  herself  in  the  same  hand.     She  took  it,  and  read  as 
follows  : 
"  Miss  Betty  : 

"  One  hour  after  sun-up  to-morrow  I  shall  be  no 
more.  I  have  done  so  much  evil  to  those  whom  I  have 
loved  best,  that  I  am  only  anxious  to  end  a  miserable 
and  sinful  life.  God  forgive  me,  perhaps  this  act  is 
more  sinful  than  any  other.  The  poniard  Arthur  gave 
me  will  at  least  find  its  true  mission,  when  it  pierces 
the  heart  which  has  been  the  worst  enemy  of 

Belle  Lovett. 

"  P.  S. — If  you  will  push  over  the  rock,  you  will  at 
once  afford  me  burial,  and  remove  all  danger  of  in- 
quiry, or  need  of  revelation  on  your  part.  God  bless 
you,  Betty  Certain,  whom  I  have  hated  for  so  long.  I 
am  almost  happy  at  the  thought  that  I  shall  soon  be  at 
rest  and  at  peace  with  all.  B.  L." 

Betty  Certain  opened  the  drawer.  The  dagger  was 
gone. 

"  Oh    dear !     Oh   dear !     More    blood,  more  blood, 


THE    OLD    RIVALS, 

"■  She  flashed  the   torch  above  the  prostrate    form ^  G  d   rest  her 

soul.'   muttered  the  'poor  tuhite^  ivojnan,  as  shy  bent  over  her  riial  in  the  love  of 
Arthur  Lovetty  -  p.  307. 


HAGAR.  307 

more    blood !"     she    exclaimed.     "  Oh    God !    will    the 
shadow  of  crime  never  be  lifted  ?" 

Then  she  was  seized  with  a  sudden  hope.     The  act 
might  not  yet  be  committed. 

The  woman  might  have  hoped  to  deceive  her  into 
becoming  an  involuntary  actor  in  her  death.  She  flew 
along  the  path  which  led  to  the  cave — among  the 
stately  rocks — through  the  outer  room — until  she  stood 
before  the  mystic  rock  which  guarded  the  opening  to 
the  inner  cavern.  Here  she  stopped  to  gather  the  frag- 
ments of  the  torch  she  had  thrown  down  at  her  former 
visit,  and  light  them  with  a  match.  She  then  made  hei* 
way  further  into  the  interior.  She  emerged  from  the 
low  passage,  and  went  up  to  the  pillared  rock  in  the 
middle.  In  the  dim  light  she  almost  stumbled  over  the 
object  of  her  search.  She  put  her  hand  down  to  save 
herself  from  falling,  and  it  touched  the  woman's  breast. 
It  was  warm  and  wet.  Betty  Certain  lifted  her  hand 
with  a  shudder,  and  held  it  near  the  torch.  It  was  red 
with  blood.  For  a  moment  her  strong  heart  was  faint. 
Then  she  flashed  the  torch  above  the  prostrate  form. 
The  head  was  resting  on  the  low  rock,  where  she  had 
sat  before ;  the  eyes  were  closed,  and  the  countenance 
peaceful. 

"God  rest  her  soul,"  muttered  the  "poor-white" 
woman,  as  she  bent  over  her  rival  in  the  love  of 
Arthur  Lovett. 

Then  she  went  out  and  put  her  strong  shoulder 
against  the  strangely  balanced  rock  and  swayed  it  back 
and  forth,  until  it  fell  over  with  a  crash,  and  sealed 
the  tomb  of  Belle  Lovett  until,  upon  the    resurrection 


308  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMA^r. 

morning,  the  angel  shall  again  roll  away  the  stone  from 
the  sepulcher. 

Old  Mabel  had  been  so  accustomed  to  periodic 
absences,  that  her  final  one  was  not  considered  any- 
thing very  remarkable,  until  several  days  had  elapsed, 
and  then  the  search  that  was  made  revealed  no  trace 
of  the  fugitive.  The  death  of  Manuel  Hunter  about 
this  time,  and  the  dispersion  of  the  household  at  the 
Home  soon  after,  distracted  attention,  in  a  great  degree, 
from  the  unaccountable  absence  of  the  old  domestic. 
As  time  went  on,  it  was  generally  conceded  that  she 
was  dead;  and  a  great  freshet  which  occurred  about 
that  time  was  usually  credited  with  being  the  means 
of  her  death. 

Of  all  that  she  had  learned  concerning  Toinette, 
Betty  Certain  informed  her  in  a  letter  which,  with  diffi- 
culty, she  procured  to  be  forwarded  through  the  lines 
of  the  contending  armies,  a  long  time  after,  through 
the  influence  of  Colonel  Geoffrey  Hunter.  She  did  not, 
however,  feel  called  upon  to  convey  this  information  to 
the  latter  individual,  rightly  concluding  that  the  matters 
she  desired  to  reserve  would  be  better  kept  by  commu- 
nicating the  information  she  had  received  from  Belle 
to  none  except  those  to  whom  her  duty  implicitly  re- 
quired that  she  should  relate  it.  She  gave  Toinette 
no  further  explanation  of  the  manner  in  which  she 
had  learned  these  facts,  than  that  they  were  revealed 
by  her  mother  just  before  her  death  ;  leaving  it  to  be 
inferred  that  nothing  of  an  extraordinary  character  had 
accompanied  her  demise. 

She  also  sent  a  complete  and  systematic  account  of 


I 


HAGAR.  309 

the  condition  of  the  estate  and  of  the  two*fold  claim 
which  the  children  of  Arthur  Lovett  and  Belle  had 
upon  it — the  one  arising  under  the  deed  of  trust  which 
might  yet  be  declared  valid,  and  the  other  under  the 
will  of  Arthur — and  made  inquiries  in  regard  to  the  boy 
Fred,  whom  Toinette  then  first  learned  to  be  her 
brother. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

NOT    VOUCHED    FOR. 

THREE  years  have  elapsed  since  the  slave-girl 
Toinette  was  transformed  into  a  freed-woman 
and  settled  upon  the  free  soil  of  Ohio. 

The  liberality  or  conscience  of  Geoffrey — let  us  not 
question  the  motive  too  closely — had  provided  for  her 
support,  first,  by  purchasing  a  small  house  for  her  oc- 
cupancy, and,  secondly,  by  providing  that  a  certain 
stipend  should  be  annually  paid  to  her.  She  had  im- 
proved the  knowledge  which  she  had  derived  from 
"  Mass'r  Geoffrey  "  to  an  extent  that  made  her  capable 
of  supporting  herself  and  the  bright  young  boy,  who 
called  her  "  Mamma "  and  answered  to  the  name  of 
Geoffrey,  by  teaching,  when,  during  the  last  year,  the 
annuity  had  ceased.  No  one  imagined  that  the 
refined  and  elegant  woman,  known  among  her  neigh- 
bors as  "  Mrs.  Hunter,"  had  ever  worn  the  garb  of 
the  slave ;  nor  did  any  one  of  them  dream  that  there 
was  any  taint  of  impurity  in  her  blood ;  while  her  mod- 
est demeanor  and  strict  propriety  of  deportment  had 
prevented  any  suspicion  of  illegitimacy  on  the  part  of 
her  child.  She  was  regarded  as  an  intelligent  and 
attractive  young  widow,  in  somewhat  limited  circum- 
stances.    That  was  all. 

She  was  a  universal  favorite  in  the  community  where 


NOT  VOUCHED  FOR.  3H 

she  lived,  as  from  her  amiability  and  good  nature  she 
well  deserved  to  be  in  any.  The  same  animation  and 
sprightliness  which  had  attracted  the  notice  of  Geoffrey 
Hunter  brought  her  many  friends,  and  she  came  uncon- 
sciously and  without  other  deception  than  complete 
silence  as  to  her  past  to  be  received  as  an  equal  in  a 
society  which,  for  intelligence  and  virtue,  has  not  its 
superior  in  the  land.  Educated  and  refined  Christian 
ladies  and  gentlemen  were  her  familiar  friends.  Of 
course,  it  was  all  upon  the  hypothesis  of  an  unmixed 
Caucasian  descent.  While  a  few  of  them  would,  per- 
haps, have  esteemed  her  no  less  had  the  bar-sinister 
of  that  unfortunate  race,  whom  the  tipsy  patriarch 
is  supposed  to  have  cursed  with  an  efficacy  which  could 
hardly  have  been  expected  from  a  drunkard's  anathema, 
been  traced  on  her  brow ;  yet  the  major  part  of  them, 
while  they  would  have  given  her  credit  for  her 
accomplishm.ents,  would  have  shrunk  at  once  from 
association  with  her,  even  without  further  knowledge  of 
her  past  life.  With  this  revealed,  and  her  descent  known, 
she  would  have  been  as  much  a  Pariah  in  that  part  of 
the  nation,  which  boasted  of  its  freedom  and  equality, 
and  even  in  a  community  of  the  most  ardent  fanatics, 
as  in  the  very  hotbed  of  slavery.  That  marvelous  an- 
thropophobia,  superinduced  by  integumentary  duski- 
ness to  which  the  American  citizen  is  so  strangely 
subject,  pervaded  all  ranks  and  classes.  Some  pro- 
fessed to  be  superior  to  its  influences,  but  they 
were  rarx  aves,  and  were  not  unfrequently  supposed  to 
be  themselves  infected  with  the  malady  they  professed 
to   despise.      The    fanatics    claimed    the    slave   to  be   a 


312  ^  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

"  man  and  a  brother,"  but  he  was  a  brother  who  had 
neglected  his  opportunities — a  poor  relation  who  was 
only  recognized  when  extreme  genealogical  accuracy 
was  required. 

So  Toinette  passed  under  false  colors,  but  they  were 
colors  which  she  had  no  part  or  lot  in  claiming.  It  was 
all  the  fault  of  those  heedless,  great-hearted  people  of 
the  Northwest,  who  are  not  given  to  questions  of  ante- 
cedents. The  thoughtless  creatures  receive  every  one 
who  comes  into  their  midst  at  their  face-value,  without 
examining  closely  as  to  the  grade  of  alloy.  Every- 
thing that  has  the  impress  of  humanity's  mint  goes 
there  at  par,  until  the  base  metal  shows  its  color. 
Every  piece  is  good  enough  until  the  corrupted  coin- 
age tarnishes  with  use.  Every  soul  is  counted  white 
until  its  stains  appear. 

Now,  as  God  had  written  purity  upon  the  soul  and 
brow  of  Toinette,  and  sealed  it  with  the  spotless  off- 
spring which  she  cherished  so  fondly,  and  as  form  and 
feature  were  cast  in  the  fairest  mould  of  that  cream 
of  the  Caucasian — the  Anglo-Saxon-American  of  the 
XlXth  century — the  chef  d'  oeuvre  of  created  humanity, 
in  the  ineradicable  convictions  of  every  individual  of 
that  favored  family — it  is  hardly  to  be  wondered  at  that 
these  unsuspicious  people  should  never  have  detected 
the  infinitesimal  trace  of  the  dusky  Orient,  which 
Ariel  himself  might  have  failed  to  discover.  Neither 
is  it  strange  that  they  should  not  have  discovered  the 
trace  of  Sin,  when  her  only  transgression  had  been  but 
as  the  unconscious  indelicacies  of  rollicking  childhood. 

The  knowledge    that  she  was  heir  in  her  own  right 


NOT  VOUCHED  FOR.  3 13 

to  a  considerable  portion  of  the  estate  of  Arthur 
Lovett,  how  much  it  was  difficult  then  to  say,  seemed 
to  the  inexperienced  Toinette  a  direct  interposition 
of  Providence  in  her  behalf,  a  visible  confirmation 
of  the  position  among  her  fellow-mortals,  in  which 
events  over  which  she  had  no  control  had  placed  her. 

At  this  time  occurred  an  event  which  tended  not  a 
little  to  strengthen  these  new  ideas.  She  saw  in  the 
columns  of  a  daily  journal  the  following  : 

An  Incident  of  the  Massacre  at  Fort  Pillow. — We  had 
a  conversation  yesterday  with  Col.  J ,  of  the  — th  Colored  Infan- 
try, one  of  the  regiments  which  surrendered  at  Fort  Pillow,  and 
which  was  massacred  almost  to  a  man,  with  the  utmost  disregard  of 
the  terms  of  capitulation.  He  spoke  of  some  most  signal  instances  of 
devotion  to  the  cause  and  the  tiag,  upon  the  part  of  those  brave 
men  who  are  fighting  for  the  liberty  of  their  race. 

Col.  J was  fortunately  absent  on   leave  at  the  time  of  the 

capitulation,  but  visited  the  scene  of  carnage  a  few  days  afterwards. 

He  found  without  difficulty,  he  says,  the  place  where  his  regiment 
stood  in  line  and  were  shot  down  by  their  inhuman  captors,  after 
having  laid  down  their  arms  and  surrendered.  The  scene,  as  he 
described  it,  must  have  been  horrible  in  the  extreme  ;  but  the  most 
touching  incident  was  connected  with  the  color-bearer  of  his  regi- 
ment. 

He  was  a  young  man  of  splendid  figure  and  bearing,  having 
scarcely  a  trace  of  the  African  in  color  or  feature.  He  had  been  a 
slave,  but  was  emancipated  when  quite  young,  and  had  acquired  a 
good  education,  which,  with  his  fine  soldierly  qualities,  greatly  en- 
deared him  to  his  fellow-soldiers,  and  made  him  a  universal  favorite 
with  the  officers  of  the  regiment,  many  of  whom  also  shared  his  fate. 

He  seems  to  have  determined  to  save  the  colors  of  his  regiment 
from  the  hands  of  the  enemy  at  all  hazards,  and  had  accordingly  torn 
them  from  the  staff,  and  wrapped  them  around  his  body,  before  the 
capitulation.  He  was  found  with  his  hands  clasped  tightly  over  his 
breast ;  and  the  thoughtful  colonel,  opening  his  jacket,  to  find  some 
memento  for  the  friends  of  his  dead  favorite,  found  there  the  colors, 
which  he  had  given  into  his  hands  a  few  months  before,  with  an  earnest 
injunction  that  they  should  never  be  surrendered.  Three  bullets 
19 


314  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

had  passed  at  once  through  the  flag  and  the  faithful  heart  which  had 
striven  to  protect  it  from  dishonor. 

The  poor  fellow  was  buried  with  the  honors  of  war,  shrouded  in 
the  flag  which  he  had  so  nobly  saved  from  the  hands  of  a  brutal 
enemy. 

In  his  breast-pocket  was  found  a  photograph  of  President  Lin- 
coln, wrapped  in  a  copy  of  the  Emancipation  Proclamation,  also  a 
deed  of  manumission  in  favor  of  Fred.  Lovett,  "a  mulatto  boy, 
aged  twelve  years,  the  property  of  Manuel  Hunter,  of  Cold  Spring 
county,  N.  C."     This  deed  seems  to  have  been  admitted  to  probate 

and  registered  in  Lorrain  county,  Ohio.    Col.  J left  these  articles 

at  this  office,  where  they  may  be  claimed  by  any  friend  of  Sergeant 
Lovett. 

The  barbarism  which  could  slay  such  men  in  cold  blood,  when 
they  had  honorably  surrendered  after  a  brave  struggle,  is  too  in- 
famous for  comment. 

Toinette  saw  this  in  a  journal  which  was  printed  in 
a  neighboring  city.  She  did  not  know  whether  it  was 
true  or  false,  but  she  wrote  to  the  publishers,  and 
said  :  "  Send  the  papers  found  on  Sergeant  Lovett  to 
me.  I  am  his  sister."  And  they  came — the  deed  of 
manumission,  the  proclamation,  and  the  sad,  uncomely 
carte  of  the  great  liberator — all  stained  with  blood. 

Then  she  believed.  She  felt  that  her  brother  had 
died  a  hero,  in  the  great  struggle  for  the  liberty  of  his 
race.  Her  boy  was  thoroughly  ennobled  now — first  by 
descent  from  one  of  those  knightly  heroes  who  battled 
for  the  unrighteous  and  doomed  cause  of  human  bond- 
age, believing  it  to  be  the  side  of  Liberty  and  Right, 
instead  of  Slavery  and  Oppression ;  and  again  by  kin- 
ship with  that  brother,  who  had  proved  himself  worthy 
of  knighthood,  though  born  a  slave. 

Toinette  may  have  been  mistaken.  So  was,  perhaps, 
the  editor  of  the  popular  journal.  Fred  Lovett  may 
have  been  no  hero  at  all.     He  may  never  have  fought 


NOT  VOUCHED  FOR.  315 

bravely,  surrendered  honorably,  or  been  butchered 
treacherously.  We  do  not  know.  History  must  settle 
that.  We  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter.  We 
are  only  concerned  in  the  death  of  Fred  Lovett,  and 
the  influence  of  that  fact  on  Toinette  and  her  fortunes. 

There  may  have  been  no  — th  Colored  Infantry,  no 
battle  at  Fort  Pillow,  no  surrender,  no  horrible  mas- 
sacre— whose  recital  chills  the  blood — there  may  have 
been  no  Fort  Pillow  at  all,  in  fact.  We  only  know  that 
Fred  Lovett  died — that  thus  the  editor  wrote  at  that 
day — however  history  may  teach — and  thus  Toinette 
believed. 

After  she  knew  this,  she  opened  the  packet  which 
her  mother,  old  Mabel,  had  given  her  for  Fred  Lovett, 
and  found  it  to  contain  a  deed  from  "  Thomas  Gray 
to  Arthur  Lovett,  as  Trustee  for  Belle  Lovett,  free- 
woman  of  color,"  of  the  premises  she  had  known  as 
Lovett  Lodge. 

Whether  she  was  an  heiress  by  her  father's  will,  or 
her  mother's  right,  she  knew  not. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

CHRYSALID. 

THE  beauty  of  form  and  feature  which  had  marked 
the  childhood  of  Toinette  had  ripened  with  years 
into  a  rare  loveliness.  Her  sunny  temperament  still  pre- 
vailed, and  gave  to  every  event  a  cheerful  significance. 
She  had  never  lost  faith  in  the  love  which  had  gladdened 
her  young  life.  She  knew  it  had  no  legal  sanction — that 
it  bore  the  stain  which  makes  the  purest  love  the  keenest 
disgrace.  Yet  she  cherished  its  memory.  Her  love  for 
Geoffrey  had  been  of  that  all-sacrificing  character  which 
does  not  ask  advantage,  require  recognition,  or  demand 
its  right.  You  may  call  it  degraded  and  servile  if  you 
will,  it  is  that  love  which  woman  not  seldom  gives  with- 
out question,  without  fear,  without  hope.  As  the  years 
had  elapsed,  and  she  came  to  realize  more  clearly  the 
relations  in  which  they  had  stood  to  each  other,  she 
began  to  be  grateful  to  the  Power  which  had  separated 
them,  though  she  yet  clung  to  a  vague,  foolish  hope  that 
time  would  bring  a  remedy  for  the  evil,  and  yet  leave 
her  the  joy  of  love.  As  the  fierce  struggle  of  the  na- 
tional war  passed  through  its  preliminary  phases,  and 
finally  disclosed  the  Divine  message  which  it  bore  of 
freedom  to  all,  this  vain  hope  began  to  take  a  more 
tangible  form  in  the  mind  of  Toinette.  The  poor 
creature  loved  so  blindly  that  she  could  not  think  that 


CHRYSALID,  317 

the  object  of  her  adoration  had  never  once  contemplat- 
ed the  hypothesis  of  which  she  dreamed — perhaps  had 
never  even  desired  its  possibility.  But  she  did  not 
know — she  did  not  wish  to  know — she  would  not  know. 
"When  this  war  is  ended,"  she  said  to  herself,  "then  he 
will  have  no  slaves — there  will  be  no  slavery ;  and — 
and,  if  I  have  improved,  if  I  am  as  refined  and  lady- 
like as  others,  then  he  will  love,  me  still.  He  cannot 
help  it,  when  he  sees  our  beautiful  boy;"  and  then  she 
would  caress  the  child.  Day  by  day,  hour  by  hour, 
she  wTought  to  make  herself  the  fit  companion  of  the 
man  she  loved.  No  task  was  too  severe,  no  study  too 
exacting.  For  hours  before  the  day-break  on  the  cold 
winter  mornings,  she  pursued  with  unwearying  assiduity 
her  musical  studies  and  practice,  that  she  might  give 
the  entire  day  to  other  duties.  Her  progress  was  amaz- 
ing. She  came  very  soon  to  be  regarded  as  a  musical 
prodigy,  even  in  a  community  of  skilled  musicians. 
Every  department  of  science  and  literature  she  laid 
under  contribution  to  her  hopeless  and  insane  love. 
Every  day  should  have  opened  her  eyes  to  its  absurdity, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  each  day  seemed  to  strengthen 
her  delusion. 

As  the  war  progressed  and  the  end  grew  nearer,  her 
heart  became  more  and  more  wrapped  up  in  her  vain 
fancy;  as  the  clasp  of  the  giant  grew  closer  and  closer 
upon  the  throat  of  the  Rebellion,  as  the  thundering  at 
Petersburg  grew  louder  and  louder,  she  could  not  resist 
the  yearning  which  impelled  her  to  go  to  the  scene  of 
combat.  She  knew  that  he,  Geoffrey  Hunter,  her  idol, 
was  there.     She  knew  that  he  was  fighting  for  the  cause 


318  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

of  Rebellion  and  Slavery,  and  she  knew  that  he  would 
be  beaten;  that  his  cause  must  fall;  but  yet  she  gloried 
in  his  courage.  It  stirred  her  pulses  with  a  wild  joy  to 
know  that  the  man  she  loved  could  yet  fight  bravely  for 
a  cause  which  he  knew  to  be  doomed.  As,  day  by  day, 
she  read  the  reports  of  that  heroic  defense,  half-trem- 
bling lest  she  should  find  that  death  had  robbed  her  of 
her  idol,  her  heart  bounded  with  pride  as  she  thought 
that  one  of  that  proud  band  of  dauntless  heroes  was  the 
father  of  her  boy.  She  did  not  stop  to  ask,  she  did 
not  think,  whether  the  matrimonial  bond  had  cast  its 
halo  of  respectability  around  that  curly  head  or  not. 
She  knew  that  kindly  nature  had  marked  its  parent- 
age, in  the  deep  blue  eye,  the  broad,  fair  brow,  the 
bright  brown  locks,  and,  more  than  all,  in  the  imperi- 
ous mouth,  the  soft,  clear  tone,  and  the  proud  and 
haughty  carriage.  If  her  slave-life  had  made  her  less 
regardful  of  the  marriage  sanction,  who  shall  blame  her.? 
Purer  offering  was  never  laid  on  the  altar  of  love  than 
the  bounding  pride  with  which  she  told  to  her  young 
boy  at  evening  the  story  of  his  father's  heroism.  She 
painted  the  perils  of  the  siege  with  the  prescient  accu- 
racy of  love — snatching  from  the  briefest  hints  the  whole 
horrible  truth.  The  want,  exposure,  the  constant  fire, 
the  unexpected  attack,  the  gallant  repulse — and  in  it  all 
she  painted  the  form  of  her  hero,  foremost,  manfullest 
of  all ;  the  sire  of  that  fair  boy,  his  second  self,  who  list- 
ened with  wide-eyed  wonderment  to  the  tale  he  could 
not  understand. 

And  so  she  went  on,  ever  filling  her  heart  with  fond 
hope,  until  it  could  beat  no  more  so  far  away  from  the 


CHRYSALID.  319 

scene  of  her  hero's  exploits.  Every  moment  was  agony 
until  she  could  be  near  him,  could  see  his  danger,  and 
share  in  part  his  peril.  So  it  came  about  that  in  the 
early  autumn  she  left  her  son  with  some  kind  friends, 
telling  him  that  she  went  to  seek  his  father  and  bring 
him  home  to  his  boy.  For  so  the  silly  child  cheated  her- 
self into  believing  she  would  do.  And  she  went  away 
and  became  one  of  that  noble  army  of  women  who 
brought  the  sunshine  of  heaven  into  camp  and  hospital. 
They  would  have  kept  her  at  this  post  or  that,  but  she 
would  take  no  denial,  and  pressed  on  until  she  found 
herself  under  the  very  guns  of  the  beleaguered  city. 
There  she  did  her  work  quietly,  cheerfully,  praying  ever 
for  the  cause  of  those  she  served,  and  gazing  lovingly 
toward  the  long  lines  of  gray  earthworks  which  showed 
the  enemy's  position,  and  trying  to  picture  the  place  and 
occupation  of  her  idol.  How  ardently  she  longed  for 
the  end.  Of  course  the  city  must  fall  —  she  never 
doubted  that — and  the  unholy  cause  with  it.  But  her 
idol — he  should  be  like  the  house  of  Rahab.  She  would 
find  him  and  shield  him.  He  should  be  her  part  of  the 
plunder  when  the  final  assault  was  made.  She  would 
save  his  life  and  give  him  hers ;  not  upon  conditions,  oh, 
no  !  but  freely,  gladly.  It  was  his  already.  She  vron- 
dered  if  he  knew  or  ever  would  know  how  fully,  how 
completely.  She  was  sure  he  would.  Perhaps  he  was 
sick.  She  would  nurse  him  back  into  life.  Perhaps  he 
was  wounded,  or  would  be  when  the  end  came.  She 
had  an  impression  that  he  would  be.  She  would  work 
very  hard — she  would  be  very  faithful  in  the  hospital — 
that  she  might  learn  the  more  skillfully  to  bind  up  his 


320  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

wounds  and  bid  the  soul  that  was  so  dear  hold  its  place 
in  the  shattered  tenement.  Oh !  she  would  find  him — 
just  over  there — and  he  would  be  hers.  Her  Geoffrey — 
her —  The  warm  blush  told  the  word  she  would  not 
even  whisper  to  her  own  fond  heart.  Poor,  silly,  loving 
woman !  How  merciful  would  have  been  the  bursting 
shell  that  had  brought  a  message  from  beyond  the  pearly 
gates  to  that  pure,  trusting  heart — too  pure  to  know  its 
own  impurity. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

STRICKEN. 

HOUR  by  hour  the  end  approached.  The  lines 
grew  longer  and  longer ;  and  one  of  them  grew 
daily  thinner  and  weaker. 

Still  it  did  not  break,  till  one  day  in  the  early 
spring.  Sheridan  with  his  troopers,  and  Warren  with 
his  footmen,  had  been  for  days  passing  on  to  the 
southward  by  the  hospital,  where  Toinette  sat  and 
watched  them.  She  knew  by  a  sort  of  intuition  that 
the  last  throe  of  the  gigantic  rebellion  had  come.  She 
watched  silently,  praying  for  the  success  of  liberty, 
and  at  the  same  time  hoping  that  the  enemy  would 
crown  their  long  resistance  with  an  heroic  struggle, 
and  that  one  of  the  gray-coated  braves  at  least  would 
go  up  from  the  field  of  battle  unscathed.  For  days  she 
could  not  sleep.  The.  busy  preparation  for  new  pa- 
tients at  the  hospital  filled  her  with  horror.  At  length 
the  day  of  days  came — the  day  to  which  all  had  looked 
forward  with  dread  or  anticipation,  when  there  came 
the  sound  of  heavy  firing  away  to  the  southward. 

The  blow  was  struck,  and  the  blue  line  swept 
round  to  the  South-Side,  cutting  off  the  aorta  of  the 
rebellion.  But  two  courses  were  now  before  the 
master-mind  who   had   so  long  conducted  the  defense. 


322  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

immediate  and  perilous  retreat  before  a  flushed  and 
victorious  foe,  or  one  more  blow,  desperate  and  all  but 
hopeless,  which  only  transcendent  genius  and  super- 
human courage  could  render  successful.  There  was 
only  one  chance  in  a  thousand — nay,  only  one  in  a  mil- 
lion. Yet,  there  was  something  in  its  favor.  The  cause 
for  which  the  defenders  had  fought  so  long  and  bravely 
was  doomed.  Lee  knew  ///<?/,  so  did  all  his  captains, 
so  did  every  soldier,  so  did  all  thinking  men.  Re- 
treat without  a  counter-check  w^as  almost  instant  death. 
The  end  could  not  be  far  off,  at  best,  but  the  chances 
for  such  combinations  as  would  make  a  further  series 
of  Fabian  operations  possible,  were  very  few  indeed,  if 
the  victorious  army  of  his  wary  and  tireless  opponent 
were  upon  his  heels.  AVhatever  hope  of  success  there 
was  left  to  Lee  lay  in  so  paralyzing  his  enemy  that  no 
immediate  pursuit  could  be  made.  If  this  could  be 
done  the  struggle  might  yet  be  prolonged.  He  pro- 
vided, therefore,  for  a  counter-check  which,  if  success- 
ful, would  so  cripple  the  huge  leviathan  that  lay 
stretched  out  before  him,  as  to  give  an  opportunity  for 
successful  retreat,  and  end  the  most  famous  of  defenses 
with  the  most  brilliant  achievement  of  a  shattered  army. 
If  it  had  succeeded,  the  coming  ages  would  have  looked 
back  with  ever-increasing  wonder  upon  the  mind  which 
conceived  and  the  men  who  executed  the  daring  stroke. 
That  was  the  critical  moment  for  the  fame  of  Lee  as 
a  soldier.  In  that  hour  he  failed  to  write  his  name,  as 
he  might  have  done,  beside  that  even  of  the  great  Na- 
poleon. The  policy  of  desperation  was  foreign  to  his 
mind.     Had  Jackson  then  been  at  the  head  of  that  be- 


STRICKEN.  3^3 

leaguered  army,  there  had  been  another  page  of  Con- 
federate history  to  write — not  successful,  it  is  probable, 
nay,  almost  certain — for  exhaustion  had  already  pro- 
ceeded too  far,  but  certainly  more  brilliant  than  any 
other. 

Lee  showed  that  he  comprehended  the  opportunity, 
but  feared  to  risk  all  in  taking  advantage  of  it.  He 
saw  the  chance  and  counted  the  odds.  But  in  the  very 
moment  of  its  accomplishment  his  nerve  failed.  He 
could  not  risk  all  upon  one  throw.  The  spirit  of  his 
great  Roman  exemplar  was  so  strong  upon  him  that  he 
could  not  resist  preparing  for  the  contingency  of  failure. 
So  he  took  a  handful  only  of  his  decimated  forces  and 
hurled  them  in  the  gray  of  morning  upon  one  of  his 
enemy's  strongholds.  Just  where  the  opposing  line  was 
weakest  in  numbers,  and  most  difficult  to  reinforce, 
he  tried  to  thrust  in  a  wedge  which  should  divide 
the  vast  trunk  and  menace  both  extremes.  Time  and 
place  were  each  chosen  with  exquisite  skill.  So  signal 
was  the  success  of  this  little  band,  that  it  shows  all 
the  more  clearly  how  great  was  the  error  which  he 
made,  who  entrusted  to  so  few  the  only  remain- 
ing chance  of  winning  a  transcendently  glorious  fu- 
ture. 

On,  on,  came  the  last  column  to  which  was  com- 
mitted the  final  opportunity  of  an  army  crowned  with 
the  unsurpassed  glory  of  an  unequal  contest.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  inspiration  of  their  message  to  posterity  had 
swelled  every  heart  and  strung  every  nerve  to  deeds  of 
unprecedented  valor.  Their  onset  was  as  the  lightning 
flash    in    its   brilliancy,    and   like    its    scath    in    results. 


324  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

Over  the  mighty  works  they  clambered,  and  their  ene- 
mies' ranks  fled  before  them  hke  the  mist  before  the 
morning.  When  the  sun  cast  his  full  radiance  over  the 
scene,  the  line  of  Grant  was  broken  in  twain,  and  the 
divided  trunk  was  shivering  in  both  its  threatened  mem- 
bers. As  the  fog  rolled  away.  It  was  seen  how  trivial 
was  the  force  which  had  thus  imperiled  a  whole  army, 
"  and  the  Federal  troops,  burning  with  shame  at  their 
cowardly  retreat,  rushed  forward  in  a  mighty  wave  of 
flashing  steel  to  retake  the  lost  works,  and  hurl  the  pre- 
sumptuous  foe  back   to   his  hiding  place. 

Then  It  was  that  the  tide  of  battle  ebbed  and  flowed 
for  a  brief  space,  the  reddest  and  wildest  about  the  walls 
of  Steadman.  Then  the  brave  force  of  Confederate  as- 
sailants, crippled  and  broken — the  few  who  had  come 
still  fewer  by  half  as  they  returned — fell  sullenly  back. 
Their  work  had  been  accomplished.  Charged  with  the 
final  protest  of  a  failing  cause,  which  had  been  long  sus- 
tained with  unparalleled  bravery  against  overwhelm- 
ing numbers,  they  had  delivered  Its  last  defiance  with 
heroic  valor,  and  now  fell  back  to  rejoin  their  compan- 
ions of  the  doomed  army  of  Northern  Virginia.  Lee 
had  touched  the  very  summit  of  military  skill,  and  at 
the  instant  when  about  to  write  his  name  side  by  side 
with  the  proudest  In  the  history  of  arms,  his  hand  had 
trembled  and  his  spirit  failed.  He  showed  that  he  could 
comprehend  the  glory  of  that  transcendent  genius,  and 
could  follow  with  his  intellect  the  victorious  footsteps 
of  the  mightiest  of  warriors,  but  had  not  the  fortitude 
to  pursue  them  in  deed.  He  saw  his  opportunity,  but 
withheld  his  hand  from  the   tempting  cup.      That  day 


STRICKEN.  325 

the  soldiers  of  the  Army  of  Northern  Aarginia  crowned 
themselves  with  an  immortality  of  glory,  and  the  Com- 
mander of  that  army  only  just  missed  the  acme  of 
military  renown. 

Had  his  life  ended  with  the  struggle  in  which  he  was 
engaged,  the  world  had  never  known  how  much  greater 
than  the  greatest  of  mere  warriors  was  the  Christian  hero 
whose  genius  was  the  soul  of  the  Confederate  cause. 
The  hand,  which  on  this  last  day  of  promise  could  put 
away  the  glittering  bauble  of  military  fame,  was  strong 
enough  also  to  thrust  aside  the  temptation  of  personal 
aggrandizement,  to  put  upon  his  brow  the  thorny  crown 
of  self-forgetfulness,  and  make  himself  a  great  exemplar 
to  the  people  whom  he  loved.  It  was  the  years  that  fol- 
lowed the  hour  of  failure,  which  gave  the  key  to  his 
whole  career,  which  made  his  name  one  of  the  proud- 
est of  which  our  nation,  or  the  world,  can  boast — as 
representing  one  of  the  few  in  all  the  ages  who  could 
resolutely  subordinate  his  own  glory  to  the  good  of  his 
fellows — his  fame,  to  what  he  deemed  his  duty. 

It  was  the  unnoted  years  at  Lexington  which  crown- 
ed the  life  of  Lee  with  its  brightest  halo. 

No  sooner  had  the  struggle  ended  than  the  wounded 
rictims  of  this  last  spasmodic  effort  of  the  dying  cause 
began  to  pour  into  the  hospitals  in  the  rear  of  the  Fed- 
eral lines.  In  one  of  the  nearest  of  these  was  Toinette. 
She  scanned  each  new  arrival  with  nervous  anxiety,  and 
though  she  attended  to  her  duties  as  a  nurse  with  a 
marked  effort  at  assiduity,  yet  it  was  with  an  absent- 
mindedness  that  spoke  little  in  favor  of  her  compe- 
tency.     The    surgeon    in    charge    noticed   it,  when   she 


3->6  '-^  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

failed  to  comprehend  and  obey  his  instructions  in  regard 
to   a  poor  fellow  who  was   under  her  care. 

"  You  are  too  weary  and  excited  to-day,  Madame," 
said  he,  "  to  be  in  the  hospital.  The  attack  has  discon- 
certed you.  You  have  not  been  out  so  long  as  many  of 
us,  and  I  do  not  wonder  at  it.  You  had  better  not  try 
to  remain." 

"Oh  no!"  she  answered  hastily,  "I  w^ould  not  go 
away  now  for  the  world.     This  is  what  I  came  for." 

"  But  your  services  will  be  equally  needed  after  you 
have  rested,"  replied  the  doctor,  "and  you  will  pardon 
me  for  saying  they  will  be  much  more  valuable  then,  for 
you  seem  now  to  be  much  excited — indeed  quite  ill,"  he 
added,  eyeing  her  keenly. 

"  Oh,  I  could  not  rest,  doctor,  while  I  knew  that 
these  poor  wounded  men  were  being  brought  here  every 
moment,  needing  care  and  attention."  The  kind  old 
doctor,  with  that  ready  perception  of  the  finer  traits  of 
human  nature  which  is  a  characteristic  of  the  profession, 
saw  at  once  that  she  had  some  especial  reason  for 
remaining  at  her  post,  and  surmising  that  it  was  anxiety 
with  regard  to  some  one  in  whose  safety  she  was  par- 
ticularly interested,  remarked : 

"  Well,  if  you  will  remain,  you  had  better  attend 
in  the  receiving  ward.  You  will  have  enough  to 
do  there  to  keep  your  thoughts  from  wool-gathering. 
Though,"  he  added,  seeing  her  suddenly  growing  paler, 
"  most  of  those  who  are  brought  here  are  Rebs.  Poor 
fellows,  they  seem  to  have  suffered  terribly  this  morn- 
ing." 

Poor  Toinette's   brain   reeled   for  an  instant  as  she 


STRICKEN.  32? 

thought  of  the  all  terrible  details  of  the  morning's  fight 
which  she  had  heard.  She  could  not  help  thinking 
somehow  that  her  idol  was  in  that  shattered  forlorn 
hope  which  had  been  hurled  against  the  leviathan 
in  order  that  the  rest  of  the  army  might  escape.  With 
a  heart  heavy  with  fearful  forebodings  she  went  to  the 
receiving  ward. 

The  ambulances  were  there  discharging  momently 
their  loads  of  suffering  humanity.  Hour  after  hour  the 
number  of  maimed  and  bleeding  forms  increased. 
Among  them  passed  the  surgeons  and  nurses,  the  former 
inspecting  with  practiced  celerity  the  condition  of  the 
various  sufferers,  removing  those  most  seriously  wound- 
ed at  once  to  the  operating  ward  and  directing  the 
action  of  the  nurses  in  relieving  the  less  critical  cases. 
It  was  not  a  romantic  place  for  a  woman  to  be.  The 
fine  lady  whose  heroism  exhausts  itself  in  sopping 
her  lover's  aching  head  with  a  wet  handkerchief,  or 
binding  up  his  bruised  hand,  would  have  fared  badly 
in  that  low,  grim  tent  which  they  called  the  Re- 
ceiving   Ward    of   Hospital    No.  —  of   the  Corps 

of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac.  Some  of  its  inmates  were 
upon  stretchers  and  some  upon  the  ground.  Blood, 
flowing  or  clotted,  was  everywhere.  Dirty,  powder- 
blackened  faces  were  smeared  with  it.  Unkempt,  tan- 
gled heads  of  hair  were  still  more  closely  matted  with 
the  crimson  ooze.  Some  gaping  wounds  were  already 
sealed  up  by  nature's  own  bandage,  the  hardened 
fibrine,  while  the  regular  spirt  which  showed  the  arte- 
rial flow  from  others  marked  the  heart-beats  as  life 
ebbed  away  into  eternity.     It  was  the  place  for  tender, 


328  ^   ROYAL    GENTLEMAN. 

careful  hands  and  willing  hearts ;  but  they  must  be 
joined  with  unshrinking-  eyes  and  callous  nerves.  No 
faintness,  no  qualmishness,  no  sentiment,  no  delicacy 
there,  except  delicacy  of  touch  and  the  sentiment  which 
will  endure  all  things  to  relieve  suffering  humanity. 
The  matted  locks  must  be  cleansed  and  smoothed, 
the  clammy  brow  bathed,  the  grimy  face  washed, 
the  fevered  tongue  cooled,  the  wound  dressed,  the 
bleeding  staunched,  death  in  its  most  horrible  forms 
faced,  and  every  sense  made  the  messenger  at  each 
instant  of  some  unpleasant  overture  which  death  and 
suffering  send  to  the  living  and  the  whole. 

The  canvas  tent-wall  alone  separated  the  receiving, 
from  the  operating,  ward.  The  half-whispered  words  of 
hurried  consultation,  the  grating  of  the  saw,  the  keen 
shudder-bringing  rush  of  the  sharp  knife  deftly  wielded, 
the  groan,  the  curse,  the  gasp,  and,  amid  all,  the  sicken- 
ing, fearful  drip,  drip,  of  the  ever-flowing  blood  from 
the  operating-table — all  came  with  fearful  significance 
to  the  ears  behind  the  canvas  screen.  The  surgeons, 
red-handed,  perhaps  with  red  drops  upon  the  face  and 
clothing,  passed  to  and  fro.  One  whose  face  had  been 
literally  bathed  in  the  jet  from  a  severed  artery,  stopped 
to  examine  the  wound  of  a  new  arrival,  whose  only 
anxiety  on  earth  seemed  to  be  to  pick  the  clotted  blood 
from  his  clammy  hands  and  from  under  his  long  nails. 
When  the  horrible  pictures  separated,  Toinette  washed 
the  stiffening  hands  and  pallid  brow,  and  received  a 
look  of  gratitude  from  the  poor  shattered  clay.  Then 
she  folded  the  hands  over  the  quiet  breast  and  closed 
the  stiffening  lids  over  eyes^  that  should  see  no  more. 


STRICKEN.  329 

Death  had  come  while  she  yet  ministered  to  the  suf- 
ferer. 

"Ha!  what  have  we  here?"  said  the  chief  surgeon, 
as  towards  the  close  of  the  day  he  stopped  beside  a 
stretcher  on  which  had  just  been  laid  a  new  arrival. 

The  wounded  man  seemed  unconscious,  though  his 
open,  moving  eyes  and  regular  breathing,  with  a  certain 
nervous  twitching  of  the  fingers,  showed  that  he  was 
yet  alive.  His  sword  was  still  lashed  to  his  wrist,  and 
his  uniform  showed  him  to  have  been  a  colonel  in  the 
Confederate  service. 

The  surgeon  passed  a  hand  rapidly  over  his  face, 
close  to  his  eyes,  and  seeing  that  he  did  not  wink,  said 
to  himself,  "  Blind,  unconscious — strange.  It  must  be 
some  injury  of  the  brain."  For  upon  first  glance  no 
wound  was  apparent,  and  there  did  not  appear  any 
hemorrhage  to  indicate  its  locality.  The  surgeon 
turned  his  head  upon  one  side  and  discovered  under 
the  temple,  behind  and  below  the  lower  edge  of  the 
eye,  just  where  the  walls  of  the  skull  join  the  pillars  of 
the  cheek,  the  small  round  wound  where  a  rifle  or  pistol 
ball  had  entered. 

"Here,  Jones,"  he  said  to  an  attendant,  "bring  me 
a  probe." 

A  set  of  these  instruments  was  soon  placed  in  his 
hands,  and  he  began  one  of  those  wonderful  explora- 
tions by  which  the  skillful  surgeon  tracks  with  unerring 
certainty  the  hidden  course  of  the  most  vagrant  missile. 
How  admirable  the  art  which  puts  an  eye  upon  the  end 
of  that  flexible  wand  and  bids  it  follow  the  enemy  of 
life  in  its  dark  and  tortuous  path  among  the  shivered 

20 


330  ^-i  JiOYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

tissues,  until  it  has  traced  it  to  its  lodgment !  As  the 
surgeon  with  unhesitating,  but  skilled  and  delicate 
touch,   thrust   in  the  probe,  he  muttered  to  himself: 

"  Just  below  the  upper  angle  of  the  left  malar,  at  its 
junctu.e  with  the  temporal.  Through  the  ethnoid,"  he 
said  as  the  probe  passed  on.  "  Why,  Jones,  it  must 
have  come  out." 

He  withdrew  the  probe,  and  turning  the  patient's 
head,  examined  the  other  side  with  care.  In  passing 
his  hand  over  it,  a  slight  swelling  attracted  his  atten- 
tion. 

"  Oh,  here  it  is.  A  knife  and  a  pair  of  forceps, 
Jones." 

They  were  brought.  Two  or  three  quick,  steady 
strokes  and  the  forceps  were  thrust  in,  and  a  battered 
bloody  piece  of  lead  drawn  out,  and  laid  on  the  patient's 
breast.  Then  several  small  pieces  of  bone.  Then  the 
old  surgeon  cleansed  the  wound  with  water,  laid  a  wet 
compress  upon  each  temple,  and  put  another  across  his 
forehead.  Then  he  felt  his  pulse  again,  and  again 
passed  a  hand  over  his  eyes.  The  sun  came  in  at  the 
tent-door,  and  lighted  up  the  face  of  the  doctor  and  his 
reclining  patient. 

Leaning  against  the  tent-pole,  and  gazing  at  them 
with  a  pallid  face  and  sinking  limbs,  was  Toinette.  Her 
hour  had  come.  The  wounded  officer  was  Geoffrey 
Hunter. 

•She  came  forward  as  the  Surgeon  finished  his  hasty 
dressing  of  the  wound,  and  said,  in  a  voice  which  she 
meant  should  be  natural  and  steady: 

"Will   he   live,  do   you    think,   sir.^"     The    Surgeon 


STRICKEN.  331 

looked  up  suddenly  and  sharply  into  her  face.  The 
tone  had  not  escaped  him,  and  in  her  pallid  cheek  and 
anxious,  yearning  eye  he  read  the  confirmation  of  his 
morning's  suspicion. 

"  So  this  is  your  secret,  child,"  he  said  to  himself  as 
he  turned  his  gaze  upon  the  face  of  his  patient.  "  Poor 
child !  a  rebel,  too  !  Well,  it  will  probably  make  but 
little  difference  in  a  few  hours!" 

But  to  her  he  said,  after  a  moment,  "  He  may,  if  he 
is  carefully  nursed,  though  the  chances  are  very  few. 
It  is  a  very  unusual  case,  and  it  is  hard  to  say  just  what 
the  danger  is.  Certainly,  it  is  very  great.  It  might  be 
better  for  him  that  he  should  die  than  recover." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  what  to  do.  Doctor,  and   let  me 
nurse  him.^"  she  asked.     "You  need  not  fear;    I   shall 
make   no   mistakes,  and   will    take   the    best  of   care   of 
nn. 

"I  have  no  doubt,  my  child,"  said  the  Surgeon, 
kindly ;  "  and  the  first  thing  you  have  to  do  is  to  main- 
tain the  same  self-control  you  are  now  exercising,"  and 
he  looked  at  her  meaningly. 

His  look  and  tone  very  nearly  destroyed  the  de- 
meanor which  he  praised.  Her  lips  quivered,  her  bosom 
heaved,  and  her  voice  was  hoarse  and  tremulous,  as 
there,  amid  those  scenes,  she  grasped  the  blood-stained 
hand  of  the  old  doctor,  and  said : 

"Thank   you,  sir." 

Then  she  stooped  down  and  kissed  the  upturned 
brow  of  the  unconscious  form  between  them,  and  rose 
up  again,  pale  .but  collected,  VN'aiting  for  instructions. 

The  old  doctor's  eyes  svere  dim,  and  his  voice  husky, 


332  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

as  he  said,  "  Never  mind,  now,  he  is  doing  very  well. 
I  will  see  you  again  presently,"  and  he  walked  quickly 
away. 

Then  Toinette  sat  down  upon  the  side  of  the 
stretcher,  unfastened  the  sword-knot  from  his  wrist,  and 
laid  the  weapon  reverently  by  his  side.  Then  she 
brought  water  and  bathed  his  hands  and  face,  his  neck 
and  ears,  and  combed  and  brushed  his  matted  beard. 
Then  she  sat  by  him  and  held  his  unconscious  hand 
in  hers,  till  the  daylight  faded  into  darkness,  dreaming — 
fondly  dreaming — forgetful  of  the  fateful  current  which 
circled  in  her  veins,  and  made  a  gulf  betwixt  her  and 
her  idol  deeper  than  hell  itself,  and  so  wide  that  nothing 
but  sin  could  over-leap  it.  She  forgot  that  freedom  and 
refinement  could  not  make  her  white,  and  that  virtuous 
love  would  fly  astonished  from  the  embrace  which  sin- 
ful passion   sought. 

She  hid  the  battered  bullet  in  her  bosom.  Well  for 
her  if  it  had  been  hidden  in  her  heart. 

The  kind  old  surgeon  had  Geoffrey  removed  to  a 
wall-tent,  apart  from  the  rest,  and  there,  day  after  day, 
Toinette  attended  the  stricken  man. 

With  unwearying  devotion  she  supplied  the  wants 
and  attended  to  every  desire  of  the  invalid.  No  labor 
was  too  great,  nothing  too  severe  for  her.  And  as  he 
began  to  show  signs  of  recovery,  her  step  grew  lighter, 
and  her  eye  beamed  with  a  clearer  luster. 

She  was  cheating  herself  with  fond  hopes  that  when 
delirium  had  left  his  disordered  mind  he  would  recog- 
nize her.  She  had  not  a  doubt  that  he  loved  her. 
Then  her  happiness  would  be  complete. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

DARKNESS. 

AT  length  it  came.  One  bright  morning  when  the 
earth  was  aglow  with  the  beauty  of  the  advancing 
Spring  time,  when  the  songs  of  birds  flooded  the  soft 
air  with  enchanting  melody,  she  came  just  at  daybreak 
to  the  tent  of  Geoffrey  Hunter.  Upon  the  topmost  limb 
of  a  dense  cedar,  which  stood  a  few  yards  from  the 
tent,  a  mocking-bird  was  swaying  to  and  fro,  and  pour- 
ing forth  his  morning  love  song — the  truest  expression 
of  the  master  passion  nature  or  art  has  ever  produced ; 
now,  glowing  and  confident,  it  rolled  forth  in  exult- 
ant notes,  which  seemed  to  crowd  upon  each  other 
in  a  burning  haste  for  utterance ;  anon,  plaintive  and 
low,  as  a  discarded  angel  might  have  pleaded  with 
his  earthly  love  in  those  primal  days  when  heavenly 
lovers  wooed  the  daughters  of  men ;  then,  freighted 
with  a  bitter,  mocking  hate,  the  very  essence  of  jeal- 
ousy— and  ending  in  a  calm,  clear,  caressing  carol, 
bespeaking  the  boundless  bliss  of  wedded  love. 

Toinette  stopped  at  the  tent  door  and  listened  to 
this  wonderful  songster,  her  heart  the  while  interpreting 
the  cadences  of  his  song.  She  thought — as  he  rose  and 
soared  away  in  the  dim  morning  light,  making  the  balmy 
spring  dawning  resonant  with  the  matchless  melody  of 


334  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

love — poor  fool !  she  thought  that  it  was  but  an  omen 
and  prognostic  of  her  own  rewarded  devotion,  a  type 
and  prelude  of  the  music  which  should  fill  her  future. 
She  had  been  wearied  with  many  wakeful  nights, 
and  another  attendant  of  the  hospital,  touched  by  her 
devotion,  had  persuaded  her  to  take  one  night's  rest. 
A  few  moments  before  this  friend  had  called  her 
and  informed  her  that  the  patient  had  slept  quietly 
the  whole  night,  and  now  seemed  to  be  entirely  with- 
out any  symptom  of  the  fever  which  before  had  been 
hanging  about  him.  Toinette's  heart  had  leaped  with 
joy  at  the  announcement.  A  night  of  calm,  peaceful, 
natural  rest  meant  restored  reason,  as  she  thought, 
and  the  ever  present  love  sprang  uj^  in  her  heart, 
buoyant  with  the  hope  of  recognition.  So  she  had 
dressed  with  unusual  care,  endeavoring  to  make  her- 
self as  attractive  as  her  moderate  conveniences  would 
permit.  "  I  wish  that  his  first  sight  of  me  should  be 
as  pleasant  as  may  be.  He  used  to  say  that  I  was 
handsome.  I  wonder  if  he  will  think  so  now  ?  I  am 
sure  I  am  much  prettier  than  I  was  then,"  she  murmur- 
ed, as  her  little  mirror  disclosed  the  soft,  rich  complexion 
of  the  perfect  brunette,  charged  with  its  wealth  of  color 
ebbing  and  flowing  like  the  tide,  almost  imperceptibly, 
with  her  varying  thought — never  flushing,  never  pallid, 
on  the  instant  and  a  wealth  of  wavy  hair  just  far  enough 
removed  from  black  to  match  the  eyes  of  melting 
brown,  in  whose  liquid  depths  sat  the  image  of  the 
fairest  soul  and  purest  love  that  had  ever  strayed  from 
Heaven.  Every  charm  was  heightened  a  thousand-fold 
by  the  love  M'hich  throbbed  and  bounded  in  her  bosom 


THE    WOUNDED    HERO. 

^  Leaning-  a^ainsi  the  t  nt-pole^  and  gazing  at  them  ivitJi  a  pallid  /ace  and  sinking 

limbs,  ivas  Toinette.'^ — p.  330. 


DARKNESS.  33 


o 


Every  motion,  as  she  dressed,  was  an  utterance  of 
affection.  She  petted  her  hair  as  she  combed  and 
brushed  it ;  her  face  as  she  bathed  and  burnished  it  in 
the  coarse  towel.  The  rustle  of  her  dress  as  it  fell 
about  her  (it  was  one  she  had  brought  in  the  hope  of 
meeting  him,  and  had  never  worn  before  at  the  hospital) 
was  music  to  her  ears  which  ached  for  the  sound  of  his 
voice  in  approval.  She  felt  as  light  of  heart  as  the 
happy  warbler  who  had  awakened  the  echoes  of  the 
morning  by  his  sweet  caroling  without.  Her  feet  spurned 
the  earth  as  she  crossed  the  open  space  to  the  tent 
where  her  idol  lay.  Her  heart  ached  with  the  fullness 
of  ecstacy  as  she  raised  the  curtain  and  entered.  She 
pressed  her  hand  upon  her  breast  and  held  her  breath 
as  she  advanced  to  the  side  of  the  rough  cot  in  which 
he  lay.  It  was  not  yet  quite  light  in  the  tent,  but  she 
could  see  that  he  was  sleeping  calmly.  His  easy, 
regular  breathing  showed  that  he  was  free  from  pain, 
and  her  heart  overflowed  with  gratitude  as  she  thought 
that  reason  had  regained  its  throne.  Glad  tears  flowed 
from  her  eyes,  and  joyous  murmurs — half  sobbings,  and 
half  laughter — came   from  her   lips. 

She  stooped  over  the  sleeper  and  pressed  upon  his 
lips  a  tender,  trembling,  burning  kiss — one  of  those 
embraces  which  might  overturn  a  kingdom  or  found  an 
empire. 

The  sleeper  woke  with  a  start.  The  eyes  opened 
and  gazed  wonderingly  about.  She  had  raised  his  head, 
and  stood  bending  over  him,  her  face  beaming  with 
expectancy,  ready  to  repeat  the  embrace  upon  the  first 
sign  of  recognition.     But  it  came  not. 


,^36  ^  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

"  Where  am  I  ?"  came  in  a  querulous  voice  from  the 
lips  which  had  just  received  that  baptism  of  love. 

"  He  is  only  half  himself,"  thought  the  fond  heart, 
with  ready  excuse  for  its  idol.  "  He  does  not  know 
me  yet."  So  she  answered,  and  her  voice  sounded  un- 
natural to  herself  even,  from  the  restraint  she  was  forced 
to  exercise  : 

"  You  are  with  friends — in  the  hospital.  You  were 
very  badly  wounded,  and  have  been  sick  for  some  time. 
You  are  very  weak,  and  must  be  quiet,  now." 

"  One  question,"  he  said. 

"  Now  he  will  ask.  He  has  recognized  me  at 
length,"  said  the  fond  heart  to  itself,  and  a  flood  of  joy 
mantled  neck  and  brow.  "Well.''"  she  said,  and  her 
tone  was  a  bar  from  the  mocking  bird's  final  strain. 

"  Did  we  take  the  Fort  V 

Poor  heart !     Not  yet. 

But  then  he  did  not  know.  It  was  but  natural  that 
the  hero  should  ask  about  the  battle  which  was  raging 
when  he  was  stricken  dov/n. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  patiently;  "but  after  you  had 
held  it  for  a  time  your  men  were  assaulted  in  turn,  and 
it  was  retaken." 

"And  held  by  the  enemy.?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  am  then,  a  prisoner  1' 

"Yes." 

And  still  he  did  not  ask. 

"  Be  still,  fond  heart,  lest  your  beatings  disturb  thy 
idol.  Wait — wait — thy  time  will  come."  So  whispered 
love — fond  love — blind  love. 


DARKNESS.  337 

"What  makes  it  so  dark  here?"  asked  the  sufferer. 

"Ah,  that  's  it,"  said  the  trusting  watcher  to  herself. 
"  His  eyes  are  unused  to  the  dim  morning  Hght  as  yet. 
I  will  open  the  tent  and  let  in  the  sunlight." 

With  nimble  fingers  she  undid  the  fastening  and 
threw  back  one-half  of  the  tent  front,  letting  the  bright 
sunlight  stream  in  upon  the  sufferer's  face. 

"What  a  beautiful  sunrise!"  she  exclaimed  with 
rapture  in  her  tones,  as  she  went  back  to  the  couch. 
"  It  has  been  a  long  time  since  you  have  seen  one  be- 
fore." 

"Sunrise  !"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  astonishment,  "it  is 
dark,  I  tell  you,  quite  dark." 

The  sun  was  pouring  his  full  radiance  upon  the 
staring  eye-balls,  but  they  saw  it  not. 

Toinette  comprehended  it  in  an  instant,  and  with  a 
low  moan  fell  upon  the  camp-stool  by  the  cot.  This 
unexpected  horror,  coming  so  suddenly  in  the  very  foot- 
steps of  anticipated  joy,  quite  unnerved  her,  and  bitter 
sobs  burst  from  her  lips. 

She  quite  forgot  that  he  had  not  recognized  her 
voice  or  rewarded  her  love,  and  only  remembered  the 
affliction  which  had  fallen  upon  him. 

He  heard  her  sobs,  and  partially  understood  their 
cause. 

His  face  blanched,  his  lips  quivered,  and  the  clasped 
hands  closed  quickly  together  in  a  trembling  embrace, 
as  his  heart  prepared  itself  for  the  saddest  of  all  tidings 
to  the  soul  of  a  young,  brave,  and  aspiring  man — -the 
doom  of  darkness — a  doom  with  which  few  hearts  can 
wrestle.     Well  did  the  ancient  poet  represent  the  *'w<?;/- 


338  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

striDH  horrendum^  informer  i?ige}is,'*  who  threatened  all 
who  touched  his  barren  island  with  destruction,  as 
being  disarmed  and  rendered  powerless  and  contempt- 
ible, by  the  doom  of  impenetrable    darkness. 

Few,  indeed,  are  the  Samsons  who  can  tower 
above  this  terrible  fate  and  show  themselves  more 
majestic,  and  potent  under  its  visitation  than  before. 
Now  and  then  a  Homer  and  a  Milton  walks  proudly 
and  confidently  to  the  pinnacle  of  fame  with  sightless 
orbs,  but  to  few  is  the  inner  light  of  such  transcendent 
genius  given.  Even  Milton,  fearful  of  his  fame,  paid 
his  entrance  fee  to  Westminster.  Blind,  indeed,  was  he 
when  he  did  so.  Most  frequently  the  halting  feet  grope 
their  way  more  deeply  into  obscurity,  and  the  head 
which  might  have  been  crowned  with  honor  is  laid 
ungarlanded  in  the  nameless  grave. 

At  length  he  spoke  with  trembling  lips,  and  a  tone 
in  which  the  plaintive  inquiry  of  blindness  already  pre- 
vailed— that  unconscious  prayer  for  help  that  lives  upon 
the  tongue  of  the  blind  as  well  as  in  the  step  that  ques- 
tions the  pathway  before  it  is  completed. 

"Is  the  sun  shining.''"  he  asked. 

Toinette  mastered  her  emotion  and  answered  in  a 
tone  firm  and  unshrinking,  yet  freighted  with  a  rich 
sympathy : 

"It  is." 

There  was  silence  in  the  tent.  The  stricken  soul 
was  wrestling  with  its  fearful  doom.  Toinette  rose  qui- 
etly and  went  with  heavy  footsteps  to  her  own  little 
apartment.  The  birds  sang  as  merrily  as  when  she 
came,  but  she  did  not  hear  them.     She  almost  hated  the 


DARKNESS.  330 

sunshine  because  it  would  not  enlighten  the  darkness  in 
which  he  lay.  She  took  off  and  laid  aside  the  pretty- 
dress,  silently  and  sadly,  and  donned  again  the  soft  grey 
hospital  habit. 

Then  she  sought  the  surgeon-in-chief  and  asked  him 
to  visit  her  patient.  She  informed  him  of  his  return  to 
consciousness,  but  said  nothing  about  the  discovery 
that  had  been  made.  Poor  child !  she  hoped  it  might 
not  be  found  so  bad  by  the  doctor,  as  it  seemed  to  her, 
and  she  feared  to  ask  lest  her  worst  fears  should  be 
confirmed.  The  surgeon  went  into  the  tent,  but  she 
staid  without,  walking  to  and  fro  and  sometimes  sitting 
upon  a  wooden  seat  in  the  bright  sunshine.  She  could 
hear  the  two  men  talking  now  and  then,  but  did  not 
catch  their  words.  She  would  have  given  worlds  to 
have  known  their  purport,  yet  she  would  not  go 
nearer. 

Nay,  she  moved  further  off,  in  very  dread  lest  she 
might  hear  what  she  was  dying,  almost,  to  know.  It 
seemed  an  age  that  the  doctor  remained.  At  length  he 
came  out.  She  knew  by  his  look  that  his  message  was 
one  of  evil.  He  would  confirm  her  worst  fears.  And 
yet  she  must  ask.  She  must  hear  him  speak  the  terrible 
words.  Certainty  must  be  made  doubly  sure.  So  she 
met  him  and  said  pleadingly : 

''Will  he  ever  see  again.?'" 

"  I  am  afraid  not,"  he  answered  tenderly  and  gravely. 

She  caught  at  the  uncertainty  which  was  intended 
only  to  break  the  force  of  the  blow,  and  asked  with  a 
sudden  up-springing  hope : 

"There  is  then  a  chance.?" 


340  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

He  shook  his  head  sadly,  and  answered : 

"I   am  sorry  to  say,  I  think  not." 

"  Oh,  it  was  terrible !  She  could  have  endured 
death,  because  she  was  prepared  for  it;  but  this  — 
The  world  grew  dark  to  her  own  bright  eyes,  as  she 
thought  of  this  terrible  doom. 

The  surgeon  regarded  her  kindly,  as  she  struggled 
with  her  emotion,  and  finally  said,  gently : 

"  You  have  met  this  man  before,  Mrs.  Hunter. 
Pardon  me  for  asking;  but  is  he  a  friend — a  relative 
of  yours?" 

Toinette  was  about  to  answer  "Yes,"  when  all  at 
once  the  truth  flashed  upon  her  as  it  never  had  be- 
fore. She  was  no  longer  the  slave-girl  whose  position 
had  half-excused  her  sin.  Geoffrey  Hunter  was  no 
longer  her  master,  and  compliance  with  his  will  was 
no  longer  but  making  the  best  of  evil  circumstances. 
Her  love  was  no  longer  the  garland  which  crowned  the 
Thyrsus,  hiding  with  its  loveliness  a  harsh  and  inevit- 
able fate.  She  was  now  Mrs.  Hunter — so  she  was  called 
— regarded  as  a  widow,  educated,  free,  with  a  young 
life  committed  to  her  charge,  whose  pure  soul  she 
must  not  smutch  with  evil  influence.  Her  old  life  was 
dead.  The  Geoffrey  Hunter  of  the  past  was  dead  to 
her,  too.  This  was  another,  a  stricken  stranger,  in 
yonder,  who  had  no  stronger  claims  upon  her  tender 
ness  than  the  terrible  nature  of  his  afiliction. 

In  that  instant  she  was  born  again.  The  menial 
nature  died  in  her  soul.  The  spirit  and  thought  of 
the  slave-girl  departed,  and  the  free  woman,  pure  and 
noble,  self-reliant  and  brave,  stood   forth  in  her  stead. 


DARKNESS.  341 

The  warm  blood  mounted  to  her  brow — the  blush  of 
unconscious  modesty,  violated  by  her  own  thought — 
and  her  eyes  fell  as  this  young  mother,  for  the  first 
time  conscious  of  the  usual  instincts  of  maidenhood, 
said  to   che  watchful  inquirer : 

"I — don't — know.  —  That  is — .  Please  don't  ask 
me  now." 

"Certainly,"  he  answered;  and  his  kind  old  face 
was  full  of  sympathy.  "I  would  not  intrude  upon  any 
private  matter  of  Mrs.  Hunter's  ;  but  remember,  if  you 
should  ever  w^ant  a  friend,  in  any  matter,  great  or 
small,  I  shall  be  happy  to  serve  you.  And  if  at  any 
time  you  should  deem  me  worthy  of  your  confidence, 
you  will  find  it  not  misplaced.  Meantime,  let  your 
patient  yonder  be  kept  as  quiet  as  possible  for  the 
present.  No  excitement — no  conversation  that  can  be 
avoided.     Shall  I  send  another  nurse.''" 

"No,  if  you  please.  I  will  remember,"  she  said, 
quietly. 

"  Well,  good  morning,  then," — and  he  went  away, 
wondering  what  the  secret  was,  but  verifying  the  adage 
that  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction,  by  imagining  noth- 
ing half  so  w^onderful  as  Toinette's  actual  relation  to 
Geoffrey  Hunter. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

BEGINNING      OF      THE     END, 

EVERY  day  brought  wonderful  changes  now.  The 
army  had  broken  up  the  quarters  so  long  occu- 
pied and  changed  the  base,  which  had  grown  in  a  few 
months  from  an  almost  deserted  landing  to  be  a  busy 
metropolis.  The  long  lines  of  works  were  silent,  and 
the  deserted  guns  grinned  at  each  other  an  impotent 
defiance.  Now  and  then  a  fort  was  left  with  a  small 
garrison,  and  here  and  there  a  force  of  Veteran  Reserves 
or  a  body  of  light-duty  men  was  still  encamped.  The 
vultures,  and  the  poor  from  the  fallen  city,  came  forth 
and  prowled  lazily  about  in  the  late  bustling  camps 
A  stray  dog  or  a  lame  horse,  with  here  and  there  a 
broken  caisson  or  wrecked  army  wagon,  was  all  that 
remained  except  the  long  lines  of  low,  daubed  chim- 
neys, the  tent-poles,  the  shabby  bunks,  and  the  hard- 
beaten  paths  which  marked  the  "company  streets,"  to 
show  that  thousands  upon  thousands  had  teemed  amid 
that  solitude  but  yesterday. 

The  hospitals  change,  too ;  but  more  slowly,  and  with 
more  apparent  effort.  When  the  order  for  the  troops  to 
march  is  given,  the  various  surgeons  send  their  regi- 
mental invalids,  actual  and  prospective,  to  the  division 
hospital.  Here  the  Surgeon  in  charge,  after  an  unusu- 
ally thorough  inspection,  sends  as  many  as  he  can  back 
to  their  commands  on  "  Hght  duty,"  and  forwards  the 


BEGINNING  OF  THE  END.  343 

rest  to  the  appointed  depots  for  the  sick  and  wounded, 
while  he  prepares  to  follow  his  command  unless  detailed 
by  the  Medical  Director  in  charge  of  the  hospitals. 

Such  were  the  scenes  of  desolation  and  turmoil 
through  which  Geoffrey  Hunter  and  his  faithful  nurse 
passed  soon  after  the  events  of  the  last  two  chapters. 
The  god  of  war  had  gone  to  other  fields  upon  which 
now  hour  by  hour  were  being  worked  out  the  closing 
moves  of  the  great  problem  in  which  two  mighty  powers 
had  been  so  long  engaged.  From  every  side  the  forces 
of  Grant  were  centering  upon  the  doomed  remnant. 
Horse  and  foot  seemed  omnipresent.  Wherever  Lee 
thrust  out  his  tentaculce.  they  touched  a  bayonet  or  a 
saber,  or  the  whizzing  shell  or  pattering  grape  cut  off  a 
groping  member,  and  it  spake  by  its  absence  of  an  en- 
circling enemy.  Lee  was  straining  every  nerve  to  ac- 
complish one  thing,  to  reach  one  spot.  He  had  ordered 
all  the  captains  of  his  shattered  corps  to  meet  him 
there.  And  at  that  very  point,  with  the  strange  pre- 
science of  true  military  genius.  Grant  had  directed  his 
own  generals  also  to   concentrate. 

So  that  at  this  moment  Virginia  presented  a  strange 
spectacle.  Richmond  and  Petersburg,  for  years  the 
looked-for  prize  of  contest,  deserted,  and  the  enemy, 
without  waiting  for  a  "  God  speed  "  from  any  one,  fall 
away  from  the  coveted  booty  and  rush  along  the  road 
which  the  real  prize  has  taken.  And  in  the  very  midst 
of  the  thronging  columns  of  blue — eager  and  anxious 
for  their  prey — trembling  and  shattered,  sullen  and  al- 
most hopeless,  plodded  the  wavering,  melting  column 
of  gray. 


344  ^  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

The  man  who  rode  the  noble  "  Traveler "  at  their 
front  has  not  quite  given  up  hope.  The  instinct  of  his 
soldiers  is  truer  this  time  than  his  wondrous  forecast. 
He  would  not  risk  everything  at  Steadman,  because  there 
was  a  chance  for  him  to  make  the  movement  which  he 
is  now  striving  to  accomplish.  Behind  him  comes  the 
great  presence — the  smoking  Sphinx  whose  puzzle  he 
has  failed  to  read — the  remorseless  destiny  which  pur- 
sues him  everywhere  and  upon  every  flank  road  his 
lieutenants.  Blue  and  gray  couriers  ride  here  and  there 
in  inextricable  confusion  across  the  country.  The  dis- 
patches meant  for  Gordon  are  in  the  hands  of  Warren, 
while  Sheridan  peruses  those  intended  for  Longstreet. 
On  the  other  hand,  those  of  Ord  and  Wright  inform  the 
Confederate  commander  of  the  dangers  which  surround 
him. 

Every  road  but  one  was  held.  Lee  hoped  that 
was  open.  Grant  knew  it  was  sealed.  Finally  there 
came  a  message  from  the  Smoker's  lips.  It  was  only  a 
suggestion,  a  hint,  that  the  result  was  inevitable.  Might 
it  not  as  well  be  here  as  there  ?  The  gray-bearded  cava- 
lier saw  the  face  which  menaced  him.  Yet  his  Fabian 
nature  would  not  give  up.  He  would  try  the  gate  and 
prove  whether  it  was  closed  and  guarded.  He  plodded 
on — one  day  more,  only  one.  He  found  the  gate  then 
and  grim  war-dogs  beside  it  whom  he  dared  not  at- 
tempt to  remove,  and  so  the  man  who  would  not  take 
the  offer  of  a  matchless  immortality  at  Fort  Steadman — 
lest  he  might  lose  the  chance  of  victory  on  other  fields 
— gave  up  his  ajpiy  a  bloodless  prize,  like  a  wolf  in 
the  hunter's  snare. 


BEGINNING  OF  THE  END.  345 

And  while  these  great  events  were  being  worked  out 
by  the  master-minds  who  were  matched  on  this  great 
field  of  empire,  in  a  way  and  manner  to  themselves  un- 
known, which  is  to  all  a  mystery  except  to  the  shoul- 
der-strapped disciples  of  Esculapius,  Geoffrey  Hunter 
and  his  nurse,  Mrs.  Antoinette  Hunter,  had  passed 
from  Division  to  Corps,  from  Corps  to  Department,  and 
from  Department  to  the  General  Hospital  at  City  Point. 

Although  his  sight  was  destroyed,  the  recovery  of 
Geoffrey  Hunter  from  the  effects  of  his  wound  was 
otherwise  wonderfully  rapid.  He  had  remembered,  in 
part  at  least,  the  determination  with  which  he  had  set 
out  in  life.  His  pleasures  had  always  been  those  which 
would  not  vitiate  his  powers  of  enjoyment.  He  had 
indulged  in  no  intemperance  or  excess,  and  now  the 
strength  of  a  sound  constitution,  with  the  reserve  vi- 
itality  which  only  a  life  of  activity  and  prudence  can 
give,  enabled  him  to  recover  speedily  from  a  wound 
which  would  ordinarily  have  proved  mortal  or  have  re- 
quired months  to  effect  its  cure.  The  case  was  what  is 
known  in  surgical  lore  as  a  healing  "by  first  intention," 
which  seems  to  be  a  recovery  in  which  nature  is  not 
balked  in  her  beneficent  designs  by  human  depravity.  Of 
course,  the  old  Surgeon  was  not  inclined  to  have  his 
art  entirely  lost  sight  of,  and  in  his  statement  of  the 
case  the  skill  of  the  attendant  and  the  devotion  of  the 
nurse  came  in,  perhaps,  for  a  larger  share  of  credit 
than  nature,  a  correct  life,  and  a  strong  constitution  ; 
and  who  shall  blame  him  if  he  was  somewhat  partial  to 

his  calling? 
21 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

TYPES. 

IT  was  the  4th  of  April,  1865 — five  days  before  the  end 
came,  and  the  heroes  surrendered  to  kindred  heroes 
at  Appomattox.  Richmond  was  the  seat  of  empire  no 
more.  The  brave  men  who  had  upheld  the  glory  which 
for  a  time  she  knew  were  either  buried  in  the  harsh, 
arid,  bloomless  soil  of  wasted,  desolated  Virginia,  or 
were  the  disheartened  victims  of  the  unsuccessful 
struggle.  The  truculent  horde,  who  had  thronged  her 
streets  while  war  promised  even  a  dubious  hope  of  plun- 
der, had  vanished. 

The  city,  queenly  in  its  location  and  advantages,  had 
gained  nothing  by  Confederate  rule.  The  metropolis 
of  the  rebellion,  it  reaped  only  a  sorrowful  prominence  in 
disaster  from  its  fall.  Want  and  misery,  disease  and 
crime,  had  walked  hand  in  hand  with  prodigality  and 
profligacy  while  blood  flowed  for  its  safety.  The  poor 
had  grown  more  abject  and  dependent,  the  vicious  more 
abandoned  and  depraved,  while  the  rich  had  reveled 
in  fictitious  wealth.  , 

There  had  been  a  marvelous  show  of  opulence.  The 
ordinary  means  of  estimation  had  almost  failed.  The 
unit  of  value  had  shrunk  first  to  one  decimal  place  and 
then  to  another  in  quick  succession.  What  represented 
value  by  the  legal  fiction  was  more  plentiful  than  many 


TYPES.  347 

of  the  ordinary  articles  of  daily  use.  Only  the  gifts  of 
God  were  so  abundant.  Luxuries  of  the  table  were 
sometimes  worth  more  than  money,  bulk  for  bulk. 

Want  at  times  had  pressed  so  close  that  bands  of 
women,  gaunt  and  hunger-pinched,  defied  the  hand  of 
power,  bore  down  the  guards  about  the  public  stores, 
broke  locks  and  bolts,  and,  shouting  like  frenzied  bac- 
chanals, possessed  themselves  of  food.  Aye,  even  tore 
the  clothing  from  their  limbs  there  in  the  garish  light 
of  day — the  chill  winter  day — to  make  extempore  sacks 
in  which  to  bear  a  portion  to  their  children. 

Around  this  regal  city  for  four  years  had  raged  the 
combat  of  which  it  was  itself  the  prize.  More  than 
once  the  camp-fires  of  the  enemy  had  gleamed  in  the 
eyes  of  its  affrighted  citizens.  Once  it  was  almost 
begirt  by  their  lurid  glow.  They  were  the  funeral 
torches  of  the  mightiest  of  those  now  dead.  In  their 
glare  the  soul  of  Jackson  had  departed.  Then,  in  her 
suburbs,  within  sight  of  the  windows  of  Libby  even, 
were  seen  the  blue-coated  cavaliers  making  good  their 
way  along  the  streets  of  the  city.  A  few  more  sabers 
might  have  conquered. 

During  all  these  months  and  years  her  artisans  had 
toiled  night  and  day.  That  grand  old  giant,  the  turbid, 
growling  James,  fitly  god-sired  by  the  testy  king,  had 
given  them  his  aid.  The  furnace-fires  glowed,  the  mill- 
wheels  turned,  the  burrs  rolled  ceaselessly,  and  the  busy 
spindles  whirred  like  points  of  quivering  light.  All  was 
action,  effort.  But  the  war-god  had  swallowed  up  the 
results.  Instead  of  growth  and  prosperity,  decay  and 
destruction    had    set    their    marks    upon    the    haughty 


348  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

capital.  To  crown  all  came  the  flame.  Poor  Rich- 
mond !  No  heart  exulted  in  thy  downfall  while  looking 
on  this  ruin !     Pity  drowned  all  other  thought ! 

The  little  great  man  whom  accident  had  made  the 
head  of  a  mighty  political  movement ;  whose  audacity 
was  equal  to  the  task  of  attempting  to  out-rank  such 
men  as  Jackson,  and  Lee,  and  a  host  of  others,  upon 
whose  brows  was  written  immortality — this  seemingly 
successful  pigmy  had  betaken  himself  to  dishonorable 
flight  with  the  gold  which  he  had  hoarded.  Already 
was  opening  the  fathomless  chasm  of  impenetrable  ob- 
scurity in  which  his  innate  mediocrity  was  finally  to 
seek  its  level,  along  with  the  fit  companions  whom  his 
jealous  imbecility  had  associated  in  his  administration. 
Fortune  turned  terribly  against  this  miserable  gamester 
at  the  eleventh  hour.  From  others  she  had  taken  king- 
doms and  power,  and  given  them  instead  —  renown. 
Many  whom  she  has  shabbily  treated  in  life  she  has  im- 
mortalized in  death.  This  man  had  been  her  favorite 
always  heretofore.  He  had  won  upon  the  weakest  hands. 
Merit,  ability,  learning,  devotion,  all  were  nothing  before 
his  barefaced  luck,  and  ever-winning  impudence.  He 
was  made  the  head  of  the  Confederacy  with  overwhelm- 
ing unanimity,  though  a  thousand  overtopped  him  in  all 
the  requisites  of  leadership.  But  the  scales  turned  at 
length,  and  he  fell  so  low  that  his  humblest  enemy 
could  not  but  pity  him.  War  and  defeat  brought  him 
neither  death  nor  glory.  Ignoble  in  his  fall  as  he  had 
been  unworthy  in  his  rise,  he  whined  and  paltered, 
sniveled  for  sympathy  in  his  woes,  fed  on  the  charity 
of  the  people    he    had    ruined,  and    sank    fussing   and 


TYPES.  349 

fuming  into  that  deepest  hell,  a  living  tomb — the  oblivion 
which  engulfs  a  worthless  life  before  the  mantle  of 
charity  is  cast  about  the  memory  of  the  dead. 

The  slender,  gray  clad  figure,  erect  and  lithe,  which 
had  so  long  been  known  to  dwellers  in  the  city  as  "  the 
President  "  was  gone,  and  in  his  stead  there  came  one 
of  a  different  order.  The  elegant  and  courtly  chief  of 
the  Confederacy — the  lordly  planter  of  Great  Bend,  the 
favored  child,  nourished  and  cultured  by  the  Govern- 
ment he  had  endeavored  to  subvert — to  the  last  moment 
retained  the  trappings  and  the  pomp  of  power.  He  was 
an  aristocrat — one  of  the  few  selected  and  ordained  to 
rule — whose  mission  it  is  to  govern.  He  boasted  that 
he  belonged  to  a  class  who  were  born  to  command,  even 
as  the  slave  was  born  to  serve.  He  knew  that  a  thou- 
sand must  live  and  die  as  paupers,  or  slaves,  in  order 
that  one  "  gentleman  "  might  exist,  yet  he  counted  them 
cheap,  even  at  that  price. 

For  those  who  waged  the  war  which  his  class  had 
inaugurated — who  did  the  fighting,  while  they  reaped  the 
profit  and  the  glory,  if  profit  or  glory  resulted  from  the 
struggle — the  great  substratum  of  the  people,  "  the  poor 
white  trash  " — he  had  the  most  sovereign  and  supreme 
contempt.  They  were  the  clods  upon  which  he  walked, 
the  stones  which  paved  his  pathway  to  renown.  They 
were  but  as  the  dust  of  the  balances  to  such  as  he.  Yet 
from  this  class  came  the  Avenger. 

Two  days  before,  in  the  gathering  Sabbath  twilight 
gloom,  the  hoof  strokes  of  the  flying  Aristocrat  had 
awakened  the  wondering  echoes  of  the  almost  deserted 
streets.     Now,  along  the  same  roughly  paved  street,  in 


350  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

the  mild  sunlight  of  the  April  afternoon,  came  the  tall, 
angular  form,  and  coarse,  dark  features  of  "  the  Great 
Uncouth  " — that  man  into  whose  hands  the  destinies  of 
millions  had  been  committed ;  whom  Liberty  had  chosen 
from  her  myriad  sons  and  consecrated,  half  against  his 
will,  to  the  fulfillment  of  her  noblest,  holiest  work — 
Abraham  Lincoln — the  "  rail  splitter  "  of  the  Sangamon 
country — the  "poor  white"  of  the  Kentucky  "  knobs,' 
— walking  in  triumph  along  the  way  his  high-bred  op- 
ponent had  ridden  in  defeat. 

Unaccompanied  save  by  the  friend  on  whose  arm  he 
leaned,  and  the  wondering  lad  who  clasped  his  hand, 
along  the  streets  of  the  fallen  Capital,  paced  this 
strangely  compounded  being ;  the  head  of  a  conquering 
army,  yet  not  of  it ;  the  ruler  of  a  victorious  people,  yet 
desirous  only  that  victory  should  be  forgotten ;  in  the 
proudest  of  earthly  positions,  yet  clothed  with  humility  ; 
the  chosen  instrument  of  chastisement  and  vengeance, 
yet  overflowing  with  mercy ;  the  appointed  victim  of 
disappointed  hatred  and  ambition,  yet  anxious  only  for 
peace  and  reconciliation ;  the  representative  "  poor 
white,"  the  embodiment  of  a  triumphant  democracy, 
gazing  on  the  ruined  seats  of  a  defeated  oligarchy  "  with 
malice  toward  none,  and  with  charity  for  all."  Since 
the  Nazarene  wept  over  Jerusalem  Time  has  not  limned 
on  the  canvas  of  history  another  scene  to  compare  in  its 
elements  of  moral  grandeur,  and  in  completeness  of  de- 
tail and  surroundings,  with  Lincoln  entering  the  Capital 
of  the  Confederacy  before  the  glare  of  the  contest  had 
paled,  or  its  thunders  were  hushed. 

He   strides   absently  along  with  a  sad,  pitying  look 


TYPES.  351 

upon  his  face — grand  in  its  very  uncouthness,  scarred 
and  furrowed  by  the  buffetings  of  fortune — regarding 
with  strange  inquiry  all  that  surrounds  him.  His  sham- 
bling, uncertain  gait  is  strong  and  rapid.  The  friend 
who  walks  beside  him  pants  with  the  fatigue  of  unac- 
customed exercise.  The  great,  grim  presence  knows  it 
not.  The  boy  begs  him  to  slacken  his  walk.  He  hears 
him  not.  He  does  not  heed  the  half  curious,  half  sullen 
stare  of  the  loungers  in  the  streets,  among  whom  the 
rumor  of  his  identity  is  already  afloat,  nor  the  occasional 
cheer  of  knots  of  freedmen  who  thus  tender  their  thanks 
for  the  indefinite  bliss,  which  they  have  hardly  tasted — 
the  freedom  which  is  linked  forever  with  the  name  of 
Lincoln.  He  hears  and  lifts  his  hat,  absently  and 
silently.  In  thought,  as  usual,  he  is  questioning  the 
future.  He  is  asking  of  toppling  walls,  decaying  houses, 
and  neglected,  half-paved  streets  what  lesson  they  have 
to  give  him  of  the  future,  of  this  land  whose  destiny  he 
would  trace  and  shape  aright. 

Thought  stamped  upon  his  homely  features  long 
since  the  index  of  a  mighty  query,  and  his  life  has  been 
one  of  ceaseless  questionings.  He  has  not  delved  much 
in  books,  nor  worshiped  science  and  philosophy ;  but 
of  men  and  events  he  has  ever  sought  the  reason  of  their 
existence  and  development.  His  genius  was  not  forma- 
tive but  extractive.  From  laurel  and  thistle  he  gathered 
alike  the  truth  they  bore,  and  it  became  at  once,  by 
instant  assimilation,  a  part  of  himself.  He  did  not 
meditate — continuous,  consequential  thought  was  irk- 
some to  him.  He  did  not  see  events  afar  off;  but  he 
caught  the  signs  of  their  approach,  he  read  the  storm- 


352  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

signals  of  the  near  future  with  a  wonderful  accuracy  and 
ease.  Man  or  nature  never  passed  unchallenged  before 
his  eye. 

Perhaps  it  was  from  this  natural  bent  of  his  mind — 
perhaps  it  was  the  stupendous  questions  with  which  he 
had  to  deal,  but  for  some  reason,  certain  it  was  that 
after  he  assumed  the  Presidential  chair,  the  mind  of  Mr. 
Lincoln  seemed  constantly  groping  after  the  Infinite, 
feeling  after  the  Omnipotent.  The  truth  that  was  to  be 
wrought  out  by  the  Rebellion,  the  purpose  which  existed 
in  the  Infinite  Mind  and  in  accordance  with  which  that 
mighty  conflict  began  and  proceeded,  seems  to  have 
dawned  upon  his  mind  only  by  piecemeal.  Day  after 
day  and  month  after  month,  he  hesitated  and  shrunk 
from  the  course  which  the  first  battle  of  Bull  Run  made 
inevitable,  as  thousands  of  minds  had  clearly  discov- 
ered before.  Even  in  the  fall  of  1862,  when  he  saw 
the  path  of  freedom,  clearly  defined  and  opened  before 
him,  his  cautious  mind  built  up  a  bulwark  of  hypo- 
thetical threats  behind  which  he  might  retire  in  case  it 
should  become  necessary.  It  was  not  necessary.  In- 
deed, that  public  feeling  which  he  feared  (was  it  the 
creature  of  that  Omniscience  which  he  distrusted  1:)  very 
soon  so  blocked  up  his  backward  path  that  he  could 
not  but  go  on.  As  the  future  showed,  this  indecision 
was  his  greatest  source  of   strength. 

And  now  another  and  a  .greater  question  faced  him. 
The  Rebellion  was  virtually  ended.  In  a  few  days,  as 
he  believed,  the  Confederacy  would  be  a  thing  of  the 
past.  The  reconciliation  of  the  hostile  moieties  of  the 
republic  was  a  far  more  difficult  and  delicate  task  than 


TYPES.  353 

the   prosecution   of  the   war,  which   was  to   restore   the 
ancient  unity  of  its  territory. 

As  he  crossed  on  foot,  that  April  day,  over  the  turbid 
waters  of  the  James,  the  river  spake  to  him.  It  was  the 
remonstrance,  sullen  and  angry,  of  unused  power  or 
unimproved  opportunity  which  it  had  for  two  hundred 
years  been  crooning  to  the  dwellers  upon  its  banks. 
The  quick-eared  child  of  nature  heard  and  compre- 
hended its  complaint  as  he  leaned  over  the  parapet  and 
looked  at  the  swollen  torrent.  Then  he  turned  and 
gazed  sadly  at  the  lone  island  where  so  many  thousands 
had  died  for  the  cause  which  would  render  his  name 
immortal.  He  passed  on  and  saw  the  scath  and  havoc 
of  the  flame.  The  last  foot-print  of  the  departing  war- 
fiend.  His  brow  was  troubled  and  dark.  His  deep, 
anxious  eyes  were  filled  with  brooding  care.  His  right 
shoulder  drooped  more  than  its  wont,  and  he  stooped 
from  his  grand  height  as  if  borne  down  by  the  burden 
which  was  laid  upon  his  life.  The  "  poor  white  "  was 
walking  among  his  kindred.  The  problem  of  his  birth 
came  before  his  manhood  for  solution. 

As  he  strode  along  facing  this  great  problem,  ques- 
tioning eagerly  all  that  passed  before  his  eyes  in  that 
hour  of  a  nation's  second  birth,  the  sound  of  music 
was  heard — the  fife  and  drum — and  a  marching  column 
passed  before  him,  at  its  head  the  starry  banner.  In 
column  by  platoon,  it  swept  along  the  broad  and  silent 
thoroughfare. 

Blue-clad,  but  dusky-faced,  the  steel-crowned  ranks 
pressed  forward  to  the  time  of  that  weird  melody, 
which    burst    spontaneously    from    patriot    hearts    when 


354  A  ROYAL   GENTLEMAX. 

freemen  first  mustered  for  the  struggle  with  slavery, 
and  moved  the  people  ever  onward  to  the  fulfillment  of 
its  own  wild  prophecy. 

As  they  passed  on  in  the  long,  swinging  step,  this 
grandly  measured  air  inspires  the  uncertain  groping 
Figure,  which  stood  upon  the  curbstone  and  gazed  at 
them,  as  if  he  would  grasp  from  the  strange  medley  its 
true  significance.  The  deep,  yearning  glance  rested  on 
those  sable  soldiers  of  liberty,  as  they  passed,  with 
kindly  questioning.  There  was  no  love  in  his  glance, 
no  gratitude — scarcely  respect — only  grave,  kindly  won- 
der. He  gazed  at  them  as  a  chemist  might  at  a 
new  element  which  he  had  cast  among  the  discordant 
contents  of  a  bubbling  crucible,  uncertain  of  its  eff'ects 
— expecting  little  from  its  action — caring  nothing  for 
its  fate.  It  was  a  column  of  Weitzel's  colored  troops 
proceeding  to  their  quarters  as  the  garrison  of  the 
city.  Suddenly  the  associations  of  the  place  and  time 
became  too  much  for  the  impressionable  soldiery,  and 
from  a  thousand  throats  burst  the  wild  anthem  of  lib- 
erty, and  the  glorious  chorus, 

"  Our  God  is  inarching  on," 

swelled  from  end  to  end  of  the  swaying  column. 

Some  subordinate,  as  he  passed,  recognized  the  po- 
tent presence  on  the  curbstone,  and  brought  his  de- 
tachment to  the  "  Shoulder  arms,"  in  token  of  respect, 
as  they  passed.  Those  in  the  rear  imitated  his  ex- 
ample, and  an  extempore  review  was  the  result. 

The  "  Poor- White  "  President  did  not  take  to  cere- 
mony and  parade  as  kindly  as  the  aristocrat  who 
had   fled   before   the   power  he  represented.     He   had 


TYPES.  355 

not  been  taught  in  childhood  to  receive  reverence 
himself,  but  to  yield  it  to  others.  The  lordly  wave 
of  the  hand — the  courtly  nod  of  the  superior — never 
came  naturally  to  the  uncouth  genius  of  the  new  West. 
Yet  he  felt  this  tribute  of  respect.  He  knew  that  it 
was  to  him — the  man,  Abraham  Lincoln — and  not  to 
the  ruler,  that  it  was  offered.  He  would  return  the 
greeting.  And  he  did  it,  as  he  did  all  things  else,  in 
a  way  peculiar  to  himself — not  with  the  touch  of  the 
visor,  which  the  Regulations  prescribe;  but  by  taking 
off  his  hat  with  a  grave  courtesy,  and  standing  un- 
covered while  the  soldiery  passed.  And  as  he  stood 
there,  and  watched  the  allies  whom  freedom  had  armed 
in  her  own  defense,  the  darkness  and  the  boding  care 
faded  out  of  his  eyes,  and  only  kindly  sympathy  and 
trusting  hope  shone  there  instead.  Why  was  it  1  Had 
he  solved  the  problem  which  the  future  presented.'* 
Perhaps,  dimly. 

The  companion  of  the  President  was  also  a  man  of 
historic  name — a  name  linked  inseparably  with  every 
great  question  and  phase  of  our  national  progress  for 
many  a  year.  His  mind  had  stamped  its  impress  upon 
every  measure  of  the  party  of  freedom,  and  his  burning 
eloquence  had  scotched,  like  a  tongue  of  flame,  the  in- 
famies of  slavery.  No  danger  could  daunt,  no  suffering 
subdue,  this  leonine  child  of  the  East.  His  voice  might 
be  hushed  by  the  brutal  hand  of  the  desperado,  but 
his  eye  never  lost  its  defiance,  nor  did  his  spirit  quail 
before  the  haughty  power  which  ruled  the  nation  with 
a  rod  of  iron.  He,  too,  was  not  an  originator.  He  did 
not  go  before   and   show  the  way  to   coming  ages  and 


356  A  ROYAL   GENTLEMAN. 

peoples ;  but  he  had  the  skill  of  the  Indian  hunter  for 
the  trail,  which  other  minds  had  made.  He  had  conned 
the  lessons  of  history  to  exhaustion.  He  adopted  in- 
stinctively that  course  of  thought  which  those  furthest 
in  advance  of  their  fellows  had  indicated  as  the  truest 
and  best.  He  was  not  the  engineer  who  followed 
the  compass  of  thought  through  the  dark  wilderness  of 
coming  events  and  marked  out  the  path  of  future  em- 
pire ;  but  he  came  in  the  very  front  of  the  onward  march 
of  events.  His  eagle  eye  discerned  the  "  guides  and 
pointers  "  which  showed  the  line  of  right,  and. he  made 
plain  and  broad  the  way  in  which  the  nation  should 
walk.  To  him  the  slightest  vestiges  of  truth  and  free- 
dom were  apparent.  He  traced  their  faintest  footsteps 
as  the  ordinary  mind  pursues  the  simplest  formulas  of 
mathematics.  His  ruthless  logic  and  keen  analysis,  uni- 
ted to  an  eloquence  whose  overwhelming  force  was  like 
the  lava-tide  which  bursts  from  fierce  Vesuvius,  swept 
away  all  obstacles,  and  showed  the  pathway  clear  and  un- 
mistakable, to  the  dullest  mind  and  most  unwilling  feet. 
His  mind  was  not  groping  and  tentative,  like  his  com- 
panion's. It  was  not  speculative,  not  assimilative,  but 
demonstrative.  He  was  a  prophet  who  had  just  wit- 
nessed the  fulfillment  of  his  own  predictions.  Others 
before  him,  it  is  true,  had  traced  the  line  of  thought 
which  had  pointed  to  the  end  they  had  just  wit- 
nessed. The  flying  enemy,  the  conquered  capital,  the 
vanished  power,  had  all  been  foreshadowed  by  other 
minds — the  pioneers,  whom  truth  had  sent  into  the  wil- 
derness— but  he  had  most  clearly  demonstrated  it;  had 
marked   it   so    plainly  that    he    who    runs    might   read. 


TYPES.  357 

Even  those  who  would  not  see  it  could  not  ever  after- 
ward hide  it  from  their  sight. 

It  is  said,  that  very  early  in  the  war  when  the  great, 
troubled  heart  of  the  President  had  pondered  the  course 
he  should  adopt  in  an  important  crisis  through  all  the 
tedious  watches  of  a  sleepless  night,  he  came  very  early 
in  the  morning  to  this  accomplished  co-worker  and  said  : 

"  I  have  determined  on  my  course.  I  shall  do  so 
and   so.     Is  there  any  authority  for  it.?" 

And  the  Scholar  had  answered  doubtfully :  "  I  will 
consult  the  oracles  and  learn." 

And  thereupon,  he  read  and  pondered  the  sages  of 
the  law,  and  found  that  the  collected  wisdom  of  the 
ages  pointed  to  the  same  conclusion  to  which  the  in- 
stinctive prescience  of  the  Pioneer  had  led. 

Thus  the  heart  and  conscience  of  the  West  linked 
hands  with  the  knowledge  and  culture  of  the  East  to 
accomplish  the  great  work  which  was  set  before  them. 

During  the  entire  struggle  this  bold,  positive,  de- 
cided mind  supplemented  the  hesitating,  fearful,  doubt- 
ing one  of  the  President,  not  by  leading  or  con- 
trolling, but  by  confirming.  It  is  doubtful  if  the 
keen,  questioning  frontiersman  did  not  generally  go 
before  the  polished  child  of  the  East,  but  while  he 
was  running  the  course  again  and  again,  in  doubt 
and  uncertainty,  perplexed  with  difficulties  and  varia- 
tions, this  other  great  mind  of  a  different  order  came 
to  his  aid,  and  so  confirmed  his  conviction  and  cleared 
his  view,  by  citing  the  examples  and  precedents  which 
history  affords,  that  he  could  no  longer  hesitate. 

He  was  the  Fanatic. 


358  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

Did  he,  too,  learn  in  that  hour  of  the  completest 
triumph  which  is  ever  vouchsafed  to  man — the  triumph, 
of  ideas  to  which  he  has  devoted  life  and  strength 
— as  he  looked  upon  the  wreck  and  scath  of  that  war 
by  which  that  triumph  had  been  wrought,  did  he  learn 
that  lesson  of  abounding  charity  which  had  wrought 
out  its  perfect  work  in  the  heart  of  his  great  chief? 
Did  he  learn  that  abstract  right  might  be  the  sorest 
evil  in  the  concrete,  and  that  the  most  grievous  wrong 
might  be  linked  with  elements  of  the  noblest  manhood 
and  most  admirable  virtue?  Were  the  seeds  in  that 
hour  planted  in  his  bosom  which  in  the  future  should 
fructify  in  statesmanship  inspired  and  impersonated  with 
the  divine  message  of  Christianity  shrined  in  that  holi- 
est of  words,  "  Forgive  "  ?  Perhaps ;  but  he  is  of  sterner 
stuff  than  the  compatriot  whom  Providence  has  made 
his  chief  in  position,  though  of  less  commanding  intel- 
lect. He  is  of  the  fine  white  marble  of  Carrara,  on 
which  the  graver  must  work  long  and  patiently  to  trace 
his  chosen  design. 

It  was  all  there  in  its  appropriate  symbols — the  grand 
allegory  of  the  nation's  second  birth — the  Poor  White 
President — the  Fanatic  of  the  regal  mind  and  leonine 
mien — the  ranks  of  armed  freedmen,  and  the  conquered 
Capital  devastated  by  fire  and  awaiting  its  further 
doom,  half-sullenly,  half-hopefully.  Away  to  the  south- 
ward the  arm  of  the  Laborer,  the  silent  Hammerer,  was 
pounding  away  at  the  lordly  crest  of  the  flying  Cavalier. 
All  were  types,  and  grand  ones  in  their  way,  of  the  Past 
and  Future,  of  which  that  moment  was  the  connecting 
and  dividing  Present. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE    HOSPITAL. 

IT  is  the  convalescent  ward  of  a  General  Hospital. 
The  patients  are  Confederate  officers  and  soldiers 
wounded  in  the  last  battles  around  Petersburg  and 
Richmond.  The  row  of  clean,  white  beds  and  the  well- 
swept  floor  betray  the  order  and  neatness  of  a  per- 
manent hospital.  The  breath  of  Spring  comes  through 
the  open  windows,  and  some  are  sitting  up  in  their 
cots  gazing  out  upon  the  fair  scene  below.  A  busy- 
city  of  tents  and  rough  plank  buildings,  put  up  in  depot 
style  of  unplaned  boards,  long  and  narrow,  with  a  crowd- 
ed wharf,  and  a  swift-flowing  river  dotted  with  all  man- 
ner of  craft — all  flying  the  stars  and  stripes — while  city, 
wharf,  and  shipping  are  alive  with  thousands  of  blue- 
clad  men,  rank  and  file,  line  and  staff,  of  every  grade 
and  branch  of  the  service.  This  was  City  Point — 
Grant's  depot  of  supplies  in  the  Spring  of  1865.  There 
is  not  much  cheerfulness  in  this  ward  of  the  great  hos- 
pital. The  greater  part  of  its  inmates  are  heart-sick,  as 
well  as  suffering  under  bodily  affliction. 

"  It  cannot  last  much  longer,"  says  one  gray-coated 
invalid  to  another.  "  Uncle  Bobby  Lee  can  never  get 
to  Johnston,  with  all  the  force  which  Grant  has  in  pur- 
suit of  him.     It 's  my  notion  that  the  jig  's  about  up, 


360  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

and,  for  one,  I  'm  glad  of  it.  It  would  have  to  come 
in  the  end,  and  may  as  well  be  now  as  later." 

"  What  shall  we  do  now.?"  asked  his  comrade  queru- 
lously. "  The  niggers  will  all  be  freed,  and  we  shall 
only  have  a  few  acres  of  poor  land  left,  with  nobody  to 
till  it." 

"  Oh,  bother  the  land,  that  may  be  confiscated,  too, 
for  all  we  know,  and  go  along  with  the  two-legged 
chattels-real." 

"  That  is  true ;  and  then  what  will  we  do  .'*"  respond- 
ed the  other. 

*'  Do  ?  Hanged  if  I  know,"  said  the  first  speaker. 
"  But  I  '11  be  bound  we  find  something  to  do.  We 
have  as  good  a  chance  as  the  niggers,  any  how.  For 
me,  the  first  thing  I  am  going  to  do,  if  ever  I  get  out 
of  this,  is  to  turn  Yankee,  and  take  the  first  job  that 
offers.  I  've  dug  ditches  for  the  Confederacy  without 
pay — or  as  good — and  now  I  will  dig  for  any  one  that 
will  pay." 

"  Don  't  be  too  certain  about  the  future.  Captain," 
said  one  of  his  listeners.  "  Old  Abe  may  set  you  up  in 
the  hemp  business  before  he  gets  through  with  you." 

"  That 's  so,"  said  the  first  speaker,  "  or  if  Lee 
should  make  the  trip  and  unite  with  Johnston,  we  may 
be  sent  to  Point  Look-Out  or  Bull's  Island,  till  '  this 
cruel  war  is  over,'  if  we  should  chance  to  out-last  it. 
Well,  it  's  what  we  enlisted  for,  boys;  and  as  far  as  hemp- 
pulling  is  concerned,  I  reckon  we  have  all  done  enough 
*to  entitle  us  to  a  share  in  that  business." 

"By  the  way,"  said  another,  "have  you  heard  that 
Lincoln  is  here  V 


THE  HOSPITAL.  361 


>»> 


"No!"  answered  several,  "is  it  so?' 

"  That 's  what  the  Doctor  told  me  just  now ;  and 
Lieutenant  Goldwin,  who  went  out  this  morning  on 
parole,  said  that  he  saw  him  but  a  little  time  ago,  walk- 
ing about  without  any  escort,  talking  with  every  one  he 
met." 

"  And  whittling,  I  suppose,  like  every  other  Yankee," 
said  one. 

"  I  wish  he  would  come  here  and  get  off  one  of  his 
little  jokes,  to  liven  us  up  some,"  said  another. 

"  I  would  like  to  see  him,  any  how,"  said  a  third, 
"just  to  know  what  he  is  like.  Wouldn  't  you,  Colonel?" 
turning  to  Geoffrey's  cot  and  speaking  to  him. 

For  the  moment  they  had  forgotten  his  blindness, 
but  as  they  looked  at  him  and  saw  his  sightless  orbs 
turned  toward  them,  and  the  look  of  painful  anger  that 
swept  over  his  face,  they  regretted  the  unfortunate  for- 
getfulness,  and  were  not  surprised  at  the  bitterness  of 
his  reply  : 

"  I  am  more  fortunate  than  the  rest  of  you,  for  I  am 
in  no  danger  of  seeing  the  monster." 

Knowing  that  he  was  brooding  upon  his  affliction, 
his  comrades  made  an  effort  to  divert  his  attention  from 
it. 

"You  have  another  piece  of  luck,  too,"  said  one  of 
them,  gaily ;  "  you  have  quite  cut  us  all  out  with  that 
little  Yankee  nurse.  She  has  neither  ears  nor  eyes  for 
anyone  but  you." 

"  That  's  so,  Colonel ;  you  have  made  a  conquest 
there,  certain,"  said  another,  "  and  it  's  a  pity  you  can- 
not see  what  a  prize  you  have  taken,  too." 

22 


362  A   ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

"The  trimmest  piece  of  dry-goods  I  have  seen  in 
many  a  day,"  chimed  in  a  third. 

"A  lady,  gentlemen,  a  perfect  lady,  if  I  ever  saw- 
one,"  said  a  brusque  lieutenant  from  the  opposite  cot, 
"  and  for  my  part,  if  she  has  a  special  fancy  for  Colonel 
Hunter,  I  can  't  blame  her,  for,  indeed,  boys,  he  de- 
serves it." 

"  I  say,  God  bless  her,  anyhow,"  said  a  gallant  cap- 
tain ;  "  the  very  sight  of  the  sweet  creature  bustling 
about  and  making  things  tidy  for  us,  with  such  a  de- 
mure, modest  look,  has  been  worth  more  than  all  the 
doctor's  stuff  to  me." 

Geoffrey  Hunter  raised  himself  upon  his  elbows  and 
listened  with  a  show  of  interest  to  the  remarks  of  his 
fellow-officers  upon  the  nurse.  He  recognized  the  kind- 
ly sympathy  which  had  induced  this  cheerful  badinage, 
and  was  anxious  to  humor  it,  that  they  might  think 
themselves  successful  in  the  diversion  they  had  at- 
tempted. 

"  Hold  on,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  you  will  make  my 
misfortune  unbearable,  if  I  am  to  hear  the  praises  of 
this  goddess  and  not  to  see  her.  Could  n't  some  of 
you    lend    me    your    eyes.?       Edgerton,    what    is    she 

like  r 

"What  is  she  like!"  said  Edgerton,  a  gigantic  ar- 
tillery captain,  bearded  like  the  pard.  "  Like — an  angel 
who  stays  below  here  out  of  pity  for  human  woe,  and 
brings  the  air  of  heaven  with  her!" 

"  Too  ethereal  by  half,"  said  Geoffrey,  laughing. 
"  Not  being  accustomed  to  the  lineaments  of  female 
Yankee  angels,  your  description  is  lost  on  me.     Brig- 


THE  HOSPITAL.  363 

den,  can  't  you  tell  me  something  more  of  her  person-^ 
elle?     Let  me  not  burst  in  ignorance." 

Brigden,  thus  appealed  to,  gave  a  minute  description 
of  Toinette,  adding  similar  laudations,  declaring  his 
absolute  envy  of  the  fortunate  colonel,  and  saying  that 
he  would  willingly  lose  his  eyes  if  he  could  only  have 
as  pretty  a  pair  watch  over  him  as  tenderly. 

One  after  another  added  a  touch  to  Brigden 's  de- 
scription, and,  in  a  tone  of  light  but  respectful  badinage, 
pictured  the  pretty  Yankee  woman  to  Geoffrey  Hunter. 

Determined  to  promote  the  mirth,  he  answered : 

"It  won't  do,  gentlemen;  I  can't  make  her  out. 
Now,  would  you  believe  it,  the  only  personage  your 
description  calls  to  my  mind  is  a  very  likely  yaller  gal 
I  used  to  own." 

"Hear  him!" 

"'The  sacrilegious  brute!" 

"  Compare  a  Yankee  angel  to  a  she-nigger !  Gad, 
Hunter,"  said  Edgerton,  "  it  's  well  you  're  blind.  If 
you  could  see,  I  'd  have  you  at  ten  paces  for  that,  as 
soon  as  we  could  hobble." 

"Take  care.  Hunter,"  said  Dancey,  "I  expect  you 
will  regret  any  such  reflection  in  the  future.  I  've  been 
inquiring  with  regard  to  the  dea  certa — by  the  way, 
I  imagine  our  '  dear  creature  '  is  but  a  corruption  of 
that  phrase — at  least,  it  's  only  a  free  rendering  of  it.  I 
find  that  her  name  is  Hunter,  too,  and  that  she  is  a 
widow.  I  presume  she  married  some  far-away  cousin 
of  yours,  and  looks  upon  you  as  the  predestined  suc- 
cessor of  the  dear  departed.  Had  n't  you  any  Yankee 
cousins,  Colonel.'*" 


364  A  ROYAL  gentleman; 

"  Certainly,"  said  Geoffrey,  now  thoroughly  Inter- 
ested ;  "  a  large  number  of  them.  Did  you  learn  what 
part  of  the  country  she  was  from  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  saw  it  on  her  travelling  bag,  as  we  came 
here.     It  was  marked  : 

"  Mrs.  Antoinette  Hunter, 

'' Oberlin,  Ohior 

Mrs.  Antoinette  Hunter!  He  had  never  heard  of 
such  a  person.  Yet  somehow  it  seemed  familiar.  He 
felt  puzzled  and  exhausted,  so  he  lay  down  with 
that  strange  disregard  of  observation,  which  at  first 
accompanies  blindness,  and  began  to  move  his  hand 
nervously  and  inquiringly  over  the  blanket.  Nature 
was  beginning  that  peculiar  training  by  which  she  makes 
amends  for  the  loss  of  one  sense,  in  a  measure,  by 
supplementing  the  power  of  another.  His  comrades, 
thinking  that  he  was  wearied,  ceased  their  badinage 
and  he  thought  over  what  had  been  said  without  in- 
terruption. It  was  queer  this  pretty  nurse's  name 
should  be  "Hunter;"  but  then  there  were  a  great 
many  Hunters  in  the  North.  Antoinette  Hunter. 
That  was  a  pretty  name.  It  was  strange  she  should 
take  a  fancy  to  him,  and  be  named  Antoinette,  too. 
That  was  Toinette's  name — when  it  was  written  in  full, 
it  was  only  Toinette  for  short.  He  remembered  writing 
it  "Antoinette,"  in  the  deed  of  manumission.  He  re- 
collected just  how  it  looked  then — how  every  letter 
was  formed,  "  Antoinette,  woman  of  color,  born  May 
4th,  1844  ;  dark  hair  and  eyes,  light  complexion,  very 
likely."     That 's  the  way  she  was  described  in  the  bill 


THE  HOSPITAL.  365 

of  sale  he  had  received  from  his  father.  He  had  n't 
thought  of  her  for  a  long  time,  hardly  since  the  war 
began.  That  was  one  nigger  Lincoln  did  n't  get  the 
chance  to  free.  He  smiled  grimly  to  himself  as  the 
thought  struck  him. 

He  wondered  how  she  was  getting  on.  Her  young 
one  must  be  three — four — yes,  better  than  four  years  old. 

She  had  written  that  it  was  a  boy — as  if  he  cared  ! 
He  had  got  the  letter  but  a  little  time  before  Lincoln 
cut  off  the  mails.  He  wondered  how  he  would  have 
answered  it,  if  the  war  had  not  relieved  him  of  the 
necessity.  It  was  strange  he  had  been  so  infatuated 
with  the  girl.  She  was  handsome,  though.  And  she 
just  filled  the  description  given  of  this  wonderful 
nurse,  though  his  fellow-officers  did  laugh  at  the  idea. 

It  was  amusing.  Hair,  complexion,  eyes,  figure,  all 
fitted  exactly.  Her  voice,  too,  was  like  Toinette's,  now 
that  he  thought  of  it.  It  would  be  odd  if  she  should 
turn  out  to  be  a  relative.  She  had  certainly  been 
very  attentive  and  watchful  towards  him.  All  his 
comrades  seemed  to  have  noticed  that.  It  was  pleasant 
to  be  the  object  of  a  pretty  woman's  solicitude,  even 
if  she  was  only  a  Yankee  nurse.  They  all  agreed 
that  she  was  very  much  of  a  lady,  too.  That  made 
it  nicer  yet.  That  was  the  reason  she  was  so  quiet 
and  delicate  in  her  ways.  How  tender  and  patient 
she  had  been  towards  him  ;  never  uttering  any  remon- 
strance or  reproach,  however  much  he  had  fretted  or 
scolded,  or  whatever  hard  things  he  had  said  about  the 
Yankees.  How  kind  and  faithful  she  had  been.  She 
had  hardly  left  him  for  a  moment,  until   he  was   put 


366  A  ROYAL  gentleman: 

into  the  convalescent  ward.  There  were  so  many  here, 
she  could  only  come  occasionally,  and  could  only  pay 
him  ordinary  attention  when  sJie  did.  Of  course  not — 
it  would  not  be  proper.  Though  she  still  combed  and 
brushed  his  hair,  and  did  a  hundred  little  offices  which 
she  might  have  omitted  without  neglecting  her  duty, 
but  which  all  made  him  more  comfortable  and  happy, 
if  one  in  such  darkness  could  be  termed  happy.  Every 
touch  was  a  caress,  too.  She  must  be  an  angel,  as  they 
told  him,  and  a  sweet-tempered  one  at  that.  She  must 
be  beautiful,  too,  by  Brigden's  description.  Somehow, 
he  had  always  thought  she  looked  just  as  they  had 
described  her.  He  seemed  to  have  known  her  before. 
So  like  Toinette,  too.  She  could  hardly  have  been 
prettier.  He  wished  he  could  see  her.  Really,  he  was 
half  in  love  with  the  little  mystery.  Pshaw  !  a  blind 
man  in  love!  A  woman  wouldn't  look  at  him  a  second 
time  !  Toinette  herself — a  free  nigger — would  n't  care 
for  him  now. 

This  woman  had  shown  wonderful  sympathy  for 
him,  though.  He  remembered  now,  that  he  had  heard 
her  sobbing  at  his  bedside  when  she  thought  him  asleep. 
He  didn't  know  why,  but  he  had  always  believed  she 
was  crying  on  his  account.  What  a  tender  touch  she 
had.  She  would  sit  and  fondle  his  hand  for  hours  in 
silence,  and  he  was  sure  that  he  had  felt  tears  dropping 
on  it  at  such  times.  Once  or  twice  she  had  kissed  it — 
softly,  sorrowfully  he  thought.  Somehow  it  had  thrilled 
him  strangely.  It  seemed,  too,  that  once — when  was  it.'' 
— or  was  it  a  dream  in  that  long  night  which  had  fallen 
on    him .''     No,   he    remembered   it   now.     It   was   that 


777^  HOSPITAL.  367 

morning  when  he  first  learned  that  the  sun  would  shine 
no  more  for  him.  He  had  heard  her,  (as  he  lay,  half- 
dreaming)  come  into  the  tent  noiselessly  almost.  Then 
she  bent  over  him  and  kissed  his  lips — a  trembling, 
fervent,  dewy  kiss,  freighted  with  hope  and  love.  His 
blood  bounded  at  its  memory.  He  had  been  so  ab- 
sorbed in  his  affliction  that  he  had  forgotten  it  till  now. 
What  lips  !  How  they  spoke  in  that  silent  pressure !  It 
was  a  hymn  and  prayer  in  one.  Gratitude  for  the  past 
and  hope  for  the  future  were  syllabled  to  his  soul  in  its 
trembling,  tender  eagerness !  He  had  never  felt  but 
one  kiss  like  it,  and  that  was  Toinette's.  He  thought 
of  the  first  time  he  had  kissed  her.  The  girl  had 
exquisite  lips.  A  Sybarite  could  not  have  helped 
kissing  them,  if  she  was  a  nigger.  He  remembered 
thinking  she  was  only  a  pretty  pet;  yet,  somehow,  he 
trembled  when  he  gave  her  that  first  kiss.  Then  he 
remembered  how  it  became  a  habit,  and  he  always 
claimed  one,  if  she  came  into  the  library  when  he  was 
there.  He  remembered,  too,  how  her  kisses  ripened 
from  simple  childish  jests,  to  tender,  clinging  endear- 
ments. They  were  wonderfully  like  this  Yankee  nurse's 
stolen  embrace.  He  did  not  know  that  kisses  were  so 
much  alike.  Well,  if  she  had  Toinette's  lips  they  were 
nearly  matchless — full,  tender,  mobile,  and  exquisitely 
cut  and  penciled.  He  remembered  now  that  last  kiss 
she  had  given  him,  when  he  left  her  a  free  woman, 
waiting  for  maternity  in  her  new  Northern  home.  She 
hung  around  his  neck,  and  her  lips  had  the  same  cling- 
ing tenderness,  only  it  was  a  burden  of  beseeching  which 
they  bore.     There  was  no  eager  joy  in  them.     It  liked 


368  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

to  have  broken  him  down.  He  was  sorry  enough  for 
the  poor  girl,  off  there  alone,  with  such  a  dreary  pros- 
pect and  among  strangers,  too.  He  came  very  near 
waiting  till  her  trial  was  over,  just  out  of  pity.  He 
thought  he  would  have  done  so  but  for  the  news  that 
came  from  home — the  tidings  of  coming  war.  What  was 
the  name  of  that  free-nigger  town  where  he  left  her? 
Oh  yes,  Oberlin  !  Oberlin  .^  Oberlin  1  Why  that — yes — 
that  was  the  name  Brigden  saw  on  the  nurse's  traveling 
bag !  It  could  not — yes.  He  saw  it  all  now.  Strange  he 
had  been  such  a  fool.  The  jade  had  taken  his  name,  and 
passed  for  a  widow — and  a  w^hite  woman,  too  !  Probably 
called  her  brat  Hunter!  Perhaps  named  it  after  him,  too 
— GeolTrey  Hunter,  Jr. !  Mistress  Antoinette  Hunter, 
forsooth  !  It  was  a  sharp  game  she  had  played !  And 
she  had  even  tried  to  entrap  him !  Had  been  kissing 
him,  and  coquetting  about  him  before  his  brother  officers. 

Geoffrey  Hunter's  face  showed  the  most  extreme 
disgust.  It  actually  sickened  him  that  a  free  nigger 
should  impose  on  him  and  his  fellows  so  successfully. 

"  A  lady  1  Ha !  ha !  ha !  that  was  a  good  joke  any- 
how !  He  'd  teach  her  better  than  to  put  on  airs  and 
pretend  to  be  white,  the  huzzy !  He  'd  show  his  broth- 
er officers,  too,  that  a  blind  man  could  see  better  than 
them  all.  Of  course,  it  would  cut  her  up  mightily. 
She  deserved  it,  too,  trying  to  pass  herself  off  as  white 
and  associating  with  white  people.  To  be  sure,  she  had 
taken  mighty  good  care  of  him,  as  she  ought  to  have 
done.  She  would  have  been  an  ungrateful  huzzy  if  she 
had  not.  Did  n't  he  treat  her  well  when  he  owned  her  } 
No  other   nigger  woman    in    Cold    Spring   county  was 


THE  HOSPITAL  369 

dressed  so  well,  and  she  had  nothing  to  do  but  just  take 
her  ease  and  enjoy  herself.  If  ever  a  nigger  was  well 
treated,  she  was.  Besides  that,  he  had  given  her  free- 
dom. It  is  true,  his  mother  had  wished  it  and  his  father 
promised  it,  but  that  .did  n't  oblige  him  to  do  it.  She 
was  his  property  and  he  gave  her  up.  Made  her  a  pres- 
ent of  herself.  No  slight  thing,  either;  a  cool  two 
thousand,  cash  on  the  nail.  Of  course  she  ought  to 
nurse  him.  And  he  would  admit  she  had  done  so  faith- 
fully— no  doubt  of  that.  He  could  realize,  too,  that  she 
deserved  the  encomiums  which  her  beauty  had  received 
from  his  fellow-sufferers.  It  was  no  wonder  they  had 
thought  she  was  white.  He  had  had  doubts  about  there 
being  any  black  blood  in  her  veins,  himself.  She  had 
deceived  them  handsomely.  He  would  expose  her,  the 
brazen-faced  impostor  !  Trying  to  pass  for  white,  eh  } 
God !  if  I  had  not  happened  to  have  been  here,  she 
might  have  married  some  of  these  good,  impressible  fel- 
lows !     Who  knows !" 

Geoffrey  Hunter's  face  grew  white  with  horror  as  he 
contemplated  this  fearful  contingency.  He  lay  in  silence 
awhile  arranging  his  plans. 

Then  he  called  to  the  red-whiskered  artillery  giant 
who  had  termed  Toinette  an  angel.  Somehow  he 
thought  it  would  do  him  good  to  pluck  his  angel  before 
his  eyes.  Of  course,  it  was  a  mere  matter  of  duty,  just 
to  unmask  the  cheat. 

"  Edgerton,  did  n't  Brigden  say  that  the  little  Yan- 
kee nurse  hailed  from  Oberlin.^" 

"I  reckon  so,  though  I  don't  mind  the  name,"  an- 
swered Edgerton. 


370  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

"  Is  n't  that  the  place  where  there  is  a  school  for 
free-niggers?" 

"Really,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  giant,  good-na- 
turedly.    "Is  it?" 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Geoffrey,  peevishly ;  "  I  was  there 
once  and  saw  them — niggers  going  about  as  important 
and  saucy  and  well  dressed  and  as  much  thought  of, 
they  do  say,  as  any  one." 

"  Well,  we  shall  have  no  others  but  free  niggers  after 
this,  I  reckon,"  said  Edgerton,  "and  must  get  used  to  it." 

"  Yes,  to  seeing  them  around  probably ;  but  not  to 
associating  with  them." 

"  Of  course  not,"  assented  Edgerton. 

"  That 's  what  I  wanted  to  say,"  said  Geoffrey,  awk- 
wardly. "  That  woman — that  nurse  you  fellows  have 
all  gone  crazy  over  is — is — is  a  free-nigger  !'' 

"  A  what  ?  Mrs.  Hunter,  do  you  mean  ?  A  free 
nigger !  You  are  crazy.  Hunter.  It  is  sacrilege  to 
think  of  the  conjunction!"  said  the  giant. 

"  Sacrilege  or  not,  it  is  true.  I  '11  wager  a  hundred 
pounds  of  the  best  Cold  Spring  tobacco  against  half  as 
many  greenback  dollars  that  I  prove  it  to  you  before 
night,"  said  Geoffrey,  stubbornly. 

"I'll  take  you,"  said  Edgerton,  "  and  a  half-dozen 
more  such  bets.  But  mind  you.  Hunter,  not  a  word  of 
insult  or  improper  language  to  the  little  saint.  Damn 
me  if  I  could  stand  that,  even  from  you." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Geoffrey;  "and  if  am  not  right, 
I  will  go  down  on  my  knees  to  the  little  Yankee,  in  pen- 
ance for  my  suspicion,  besides  losing  my  wager.  But  I 
shall  not  do  either." 


CHAPTER   XXXVI, 

UNSUBDUED. 

HARDLY  had  this  conversation  closed,  when  there 
was  a  stir  at  the  other  end  of  the  ward,  and  the 
surgeon  in  charge  of  the  Hospital,  wich  a  young  Con- 
federate surgeon,  who  had  been  taken  with  his  wounded 
and  had  chosen  to  remain  and  care  for  them,  came  down 
the  long  row  of  cots  with  a  figure  clad  in  a  costume 
very  unusual  in  that  region  at  that  time — plain  black 
cloth  of  civilian  cut,  with  a  silk  hat  held  awkwardly 
in  his  hand.  Only  a  glance  at  the  honest,  kindly,  in- 
quiring face  was  needed  to  convince  every  one,  even 
those  unfamiliar  with  it,  except  by  report,  that  they 
looked  upon  that  wonderful  child  of  the  North- West — 
Abraham  Lincoln. 

As  he  came  down  between  the  cots,  the  occupants 
who  were  able  rose  and  returned  his  kindly  greeting 
with  politeness,  and  usually  with  cordiality.  To  those 
still  unable  to  arise  he  addressed  hopeful,  kindly  words 
in  his  half-humorous,  half-apologetic  manner  as  he  pass- 
ed on.  Coming  to  the  knot  of  less  disabled  invalids 
about  Geoffrey,  he  was  introduced  to  each  by  the  Con- 
federate surgeon. 

"  I  regret,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  that  the  fortune  of 
war  has  been  unkind  to  you,  but  hope  that  every  ob- 
tainable comfort  is  provided    for  you  by  those  having 


372  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

you  in  charge,  as  I  doubt  not  it  is.  I  see  you  have  your 
own  surgeon  with  you,  for  which  I  am  glad.  One  al- 
ways wants  his  own  doctor.  I  hope  that  the  days  of 
suffering  and  conflict  are  over,  and  that  you  will  soon  be 
at  liberty  to  return  to  your  several  homes  with  such 
degree  of  health  as  Providence  may  vouchsafe." 

After  some  further  conversation  he  bade  them  "  good 
morning,"  and  was  about  to  retire,  they  thanking  him 
for  having  called  upon  them,  being  sincerely  gratified  at 
his  earnest  kindliness,  when  the  surgeon  turned  toward 
Geoffrey,  and  said  :  "  Col.  Hunter,  I  beg  your  pardon, 
I  should  have  given  you  an  introduction  earlier.  Mr. 
President,  this  is  the  officer  of  whom  you  have  heard, 
who  actually  led  the  assaulting  column  at  Fort  Stead- 
man,  though  not  nominally  in  command.  He  was  the 
last  one  to  leave  the  Fort  when  it  was  retaken.  In  fact 
he  did  not  leave  it ;  he  was  wounded,  just  at  the  south- 
western angle  of  the  Fort  by  a  ball  which  passed 
through,  just  below  the  eyes,  quite  destroying  his 
vision." 

"  Allow  me,  Col.  Hunter,"  said  Lincoln,  "  to  express 
my  sorrow  that  so  brave  a  man  should  have  met  such  a 
deplorable  misfortune." 

"  I  do  not  count  it  a  misfortune,"  said  Geoffrey 
coldly. 

"  Not  count  it  a  misfortune  .'*  How  is  that  .'*"  asked 
the  President. 

"  Because  I  am  saved  thereby  from  looking  on  the 
monster  who  has  destroyed  my  country,"  said  Geoffrey. 

A  shadow  of  pain  passed  over  the  dark,  plain  face 
which  was  gazing  down  in  benignant  compassion  on  the 


UNSUBDUED.  373 

speaker,  yet  'it  did  not  lose  its  kindliness  of  expression, 
nor  his  voice  its  tone  of  sympathy,  as  he  replied  : 

"  It  is  for  the  sake  of  that  country,  my  young  friend, 
that  I  regret  your  wound." 

Then  he  "went  on,  gravely  commenting  on  all  he 
saw  which  interested  him.  When  they  reached  another 
room,  he  said  to  the  surgeon  : 

"  Poor  fellow  !  It  is  no  wonder  he  is  waspish  ;  those 
were  glorious  eyes  to  lose  their  sight  so  young.  Can 
nothing  be  done  for  him.?" 

"I  am  afraid  not,"  the  surgeon  answered.  "If  the 
optic  nerve  is  actually  injured,  certainly  not.  His 
wound  has  healed  so  readily,  though,  that  I  am  half- 
convinced  it  is  mere  paralysis  caused  by  the  shock  and 
by  attendant  inflamation.  This  might  be  benefited, 
perhaps,  by  an  operation,  or  by  an  application  of  elec- 
tricity, if  we  had  the  apparatus  for  it.  It  is  doubtful, 
but  I  think,  if  applied  soon,  it  might  save  his  sight," 

"  And  you  have  not  the  means  to  perform  the  oper- 
ation here.     Could  it  be  done  in  Washington.'*" 

"  Certainly." 

"And  you  think  it  would  save  his  sight.?" 

"I  hope  so." 

Toinette  had  stood  with  clasped  hands  a  little  at 
one  side,  listening  to  this  conversation.  Instinctively 
she  knew  that  it  concerned  Geoffrey.  Now  she  came 
forward,  and,  speaking  to  the  President,  said  with  sim- 
ple earnestness : 

"  Please,  sir,  please  have  him  taken  there.  You  can. 
Oh!  be  kind  and  do  it." 

"This   is   his   nurse,  sir,  who   has  taken  very  great 


374  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

interest  in  him,  as  indeed  we  all  have,  though  he  was 
very  rude   to  you,  sir,"  said  the  surgeon. 

"  He  would  not  thank  me  even  for  that  favor,  I 
suppose,  but  I  cannot  refuse  your  request,  Madam.  He 
shall  be  removed  at  once.  Could  he  endure  the  jour- 
ney, Doctor.?" 

"Oh  yes,  sir." 

"  Poor  fellow,"  said  the  President,  "he  ought  to  have 
his  sight,  if  only  to  see  what  a  pretty  nurse  has  fallen 
to  his  lot.     Good  morning.  Madam." 

The  President  went  to  the  Surgeon's  Quarters,  where 
he  staid  for  a  short  time,  and,  by  shrewd  questioning, 
found  that  the  old  doctor  had  been  at  his  post  for 
more  than  four  years,  without  leave  of  absence.  Half 
an  hour  after  he  left,  the  surgeon  was  relieved  from  the 
charge  of  the  Hospital,  by  order  of  the  Department 
Medical  Director,  and  the  courier  who  brought  the 
order  handed  him  an  envelope  containing  the  follow- 
ing, in  the  strong,  direct  handwriting  of  the  morning's 
guest : 

"  Surgeon  A.  C.  Kirkland  has  leave  of  absence  for 
three  months,  at  the  end  of  which  time,  he  will  report 
to  the  Surgeon  General's  Office,  Washington,  D.  C. 

"A.  Lincoln,  President y 

Underneath  was  added  in  the  same  hand : 

"  The  Commander  of  Dispatch  Boat,  No.  9,  will 
furnish  transportation  to  Surgeon  A.  C.  Kirkland,  in 
charge  of  Col.  G.  Hunter,  wounded  prisoner  of  war, 
from  City  Point  to  Washington,  and  one  nurse 

"  A.  Lincoln." 


I 


UNSUBDUED.  375 

Inquiry  developed  the  fact  that  Dispatch  Boat  No.  9 
was  specially  detailed  to  take  the  President  and  his  at- 
tendants back  to  Washington  that  night.  He  had  made 
room  on  the  little  craft  for  the  faithful  surgeon,  the 
devoted  nurse,  and  his  afflicted  enemy. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

IN    HIS    MARK. 

THE  surgeon  at  once  sought  Toinette  and  informed 
her  of  their  good  fortune. 

"  It  is  all  through  your  intercession,  too,  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter. Take  the  order  in  and  read  it  to  the  Colonel.  I 
should  be  ashamed  to  tell  him  after  seeing  how  he 
treated  the  noblest  man  that  ever  lived,  this  morning." 

So  Toinette  took  the  letter  and  went,  with  a  dancing 
heart,  and  eyes  all  full  of  light  and  love,  to  the  convales- 
cent ward  to  read  the  glad  tidings  to  her  idol. 

Geoffrey's  wager  with  Edgerton  had  become  known 
to  every  one  in  the  ward,  by  this  time,  though  no  one 
believed  he  had  any  chance  of  winning  it,  all  regarding 
it  as  a  half  crazy  fancy,  as  they  did  also  his  deliberate 
insult  of  their  distinguished  visitor. 

All  eyes  were  therefore  turned  upon  Toinette  the 
moment  she  entered  the  ward. 

"  You  are  sure  to  win,"  whispered  Brigden  to  Edger- 
ton, as  she  came  down  the  aisle  towards  them. 

Of  course  I  am,"  said  Edgerton ;  then  addressing 
Toinette  he  added : 

"  Your  great  man,  Lincoln,  was  very  chatty  with  us 
poor   rebs    to-day,   Mrs.   Hunter.      He    is    not   half  the 
beast  we   thought  him,  but  seems  just  a  kind-hearted, 
^ plain  old  man.     In  fact,  I  like  him." 


IN  HIS  MARK.  377 

At  the  mention  of  her  name  Geoffrey  Hunter  had 
risen  from  his  pillow,  and  sat  with  his  face  turned 
toward  Edgerton,  with  an  expression  of  intense  bitter- 
ness resting  on  his  features. 

"Mrs.  Hunter!  Mrs.  Hunter!"  he  was  saying  over 
and  over  to  himself.  "  The  brazen  cheat !  how  glibly 
she  talks  to  Edgerton,"  he  thought,  as  Toinette  replied 
to  that  officer's  remark : 

*'  Indeed  he  is  good.  I  have  the  proof  of  that  in 
my  hand." 

She  held  up  the  letter  as  she  spoke.  Geoffrey 
Hunter's  brow  grew  darker  as  he  heard  the  words. 
The  sound  of  her  voice,  so  full  of  the  rippling  melody 
of  overpowering  love,  had  almost  disarmed  him  at  first, 
but  a  strange  jealousy  seized  him  as  he  heard  her 
words. 

"She  had  proof  of  his  goodness  in  her  hand."  She 
had  received  some  favor — perhaps  a  gift  from  the  mon- 
ster whom  he  thanked  God  that  he  could  not  see. 
What  right  had  she  to  receive  favors  from  any  one 
but  him — especially  from  that  baboon.  She  was  a 
nigger,  but  Lincoln  had  not  freed  her.  He  had  done 
that  years  ago.  If  Toinette  had  gratitude  to  any  one  it 
was  to  him.  No,  he  would  not  forfeit  his  wager.  He 
would  not  cover  her  hypocrisy  and  shame.  She  de- 
served all  he  could  make  her  feel  for  trying  to  pass  for  a 
white  woman  and  a  lady. 

This  rushed  through  his  brain  in  an  instant,  and 
then,  with  a  voice  hoarse  with  excitement,  he  cried  out, 
imperiously:  "I  say,  you  girl,  Toinette!   Toinette!" 

Five  years  were  brushed  away  in  a  second.     Their 

23 


o 


78  ^  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 


months  of  toil  and  study  were  in  vain.  The  knowledge 
and  accomplishments  for  which  she  had  striven  were 
blotted  out.  The  snug  little  home  in  the  free  North  was 
forgotten.  The  love  of  that  brave  boy  was  obliterated. 
The  free,  white,  intelligent,  interesting,  beautiful  Mrs. 
Hunter  was  lost  for  the  moment.  In  her  stead  was  the 
poor,  abject,  timid,  pretty  "nigger  gal."  The  old  life 
o'erwhelmed  and  possessed  her,  like  the  evil  spirits,  which 
entered  into  Magdalen.  She  was  instantly  the  slave 
Toinette,  and  heard  the  master's  voice — Marse  Geof- 
frey's, the  voice  she  loved — calling  her  in  tones  of  angry 
passion.  All  other  thought  had  slipped  away.  The 
world  was  void,  except  those  two  ideas :  Marse  Geoffrey; 
Toinette.  The  owner  calls ;  the  slave  must  answer.  She 
saw  nothing,  knew  nothing,  heard  nothing  but  this.  The 
hospital,  the  rows  of  white  cots,  the  anxious  faces  all 
staring  at  her,  all,  all,  were  gone.  She  was  a  chattel  at 
Lovett  Lodge  again,  and  Marse  Geoffrey  in  the  library 
was  calling  for  her  angrily.  She  started  like  a  guilty 
loiterer,  and  answered  instantly,  with  the  inimitable  and 
indescribable  intonation  of  the  slave : 

"Sir.?" 

That  was  all  she  said.  It  was  enough.  It  revealed 
all.  The  brand  showed.  The  one  drop  of  base  ad- 
mixture had  overtopped  all  else,  and  marred  the  fair- 
est hopes. 

"Sir.?" 

It  was  the  knell  of  hope  and  peace  and  love  to 
one  poor  heart.  It  told  of  blighted  visions,  wasted  toil 
and  squandered  love.  It  was  the  mark  which  slavery 
had   put    upon    her    soul.      The    deed    of  manumission 


.-is^cSBSt*' 


<<  ,/;j:-""l', 


■r^.    •1 


11 


i^^El^it  !   !' 


^■^""^ 'W-^i^'' 


THE  BRAND. 

"  /Ti?  cried  out  imperiously  :  '  /  say,  you  girl,  Toinette  !  '    ,     .     .     The  free 
white,  intelligent,  interesting,  beautiful  Mrs.  Hunter  was  lost  for  a  moment. 
.     .     .     She  started,  and  answered  instantly  with  the  inimitable  and  inde- 
scribable intonation  of  the  slave — '  Sir  ?^  " — p.  378. 


IN  HIS  MARK.  379 

had  made  her  body  free.  Her  soul  was  yet  in  shack- 
les. Geoffrey  Hunter  had  released  the  one.  God  and 
Eternity  alone  could  manumit  the  other.  It  was  the 
private  mark  of  bondage. 

To  Geoffrey  Hunter  it  was  the  tidings  of  triumph 
over  his  fellows,  despite  his  blindness. 

"Ha,  ha,  gentlemen!"  he  shouted.  "What  do  you 
think  now.?     Who  can  see  best  now.?" 

The  words  recalled  Toinette  from  her  dream.  She 
started  as  one  just  wakened,  and  looked  round  on  the 
anxious  faces  which  were  turned  towards  her.  She 
knew  at  once  what  it  all  meant.  She  who  had  been 
respected  and  reverenced  by  all  these  men  before  was 
nothing  to  them  now.  She  wore  the  garb  of  the  Pariah. 
The  emblem  of  degradation  was  on  her.  She  was  only 
the  free  nigger,  Toinette,  to  them  now. 

Oh,  it  was  terrible !  But  worse  than  that,  it  was 
the  hand  of  love  which  had  stricken  her.  The  dream 
of  the  slave  and  the  hope  of  the  freedwoman  were 
both  crushed  at  once  in  that  dastardly  act.  She  had 
guarded  him  so  untiringly,  that  disease  had  crept  away 
from  his  life,  baffled  and  defeated.  She  had  waited  and 
longed  to  hear  those  lips  breathe  her  name,  aye,  her  old 
slave  name,  Toinette.  She  would  have  been  glad  to  be 
a  slave  forever,  if  love  had  only  softened  its  accents. 
But  now — oh,  God  ! — it  meant  shame,  disgrace,  degrada- 
tion instead.  Her  love  was  repaid  in  scorn — aye,  worse 
than  scorn,  debasement!  Her  "royal  gentleman"  was 
degraded!  His  throne  was  vacant!  He  had  striven 
to  tarnish  and  debase  the  white  soul  that  would  have 
dared    the    perils    of  perdition    for    his   sake.     She  felt 


380  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

this  dimly,  confusedly,  as  she  stood  stunned  and  stu- 
pefied by  the  blow.  She  looked  pleadingly  around 
with  a  dumb  pale  face.  There  was  sympathy  in  every 
eye,  except  the  glaring  blind  ones  that  blazed  at  her 
yonder.  She  knew  they  were  there,  though  she  did 
not  see  them.  She  had  the  surgeon's  letter  still  in 
her  hands,  and  was  turning  it  over  and  over.  Suddenly 
she  recollected  her  errand.  She  held  the  letter  toward 
Edgerton,  and  said,  in  a  low  pleading  tone : 

"  Please,  sir,  will  you  read  it  to  him.'*" 

Edgerton  took  the  letter,  and,  with  a  groan  which 
was  a  half-shriek,  Toinette  fled  out  of  the  door  by  which 
Mrs.   Hunter  had  entered. 


Pity  for  her,  and  indignation  at  Geoffrey's  course, 
filled  every  breast.  Geoffrey,  himself,  was  the  only  man 
who  was  not  aware  of  the  enormity  of  his  conduct. 
Deprived  of  all  knowledge  of  the  actual  change  which 
time  had  made  in  Toinette ;  regarding  her  as  only  the 
petted  slave  whom  he  had  freed,  and  whom  he  supposed 
had  endeavored  to  palm  off  a  deception  of  the  basest 
character  upon  himself  and  his  associates,  he  was  only 
half-aware  of  the  terrible  blow  he  had  struck  and  of 
the  fair  field   he  had   devastated. 

"Well,  Edgerton,"  he  cried  out,  "who  has  won,  old 
fellow.'*  who  has  the  best  eyes?"  he  shouted  in  glee. 

"You  have,  sir,"  replied  Edgerton,  in  a  voice  husky 
with  suppressed  anger  and  emotion;  "but,  by  God,  sir! 
if  I  had  been  you  I  'd  rather  have  been  the  loser.  I 
would  not  have  done  what  you  have  to-day,  for  all  the 
greenbacks  the  Lincoln  government  has  ever  issued." 


IX  HIS  MARK.  381 

There  was  no  dissent  from  this  by  any  of  the  others. 
Geoffrey  was  amazed.  Here  he  had  exposed  a  cheat, 
discovered  an  impostor  of  the  most  infamous  kind  to 
his  friends — a  nigger  woman  trying  to  pass  herself  off 
for  a  white  lady — and  they  were  denouncing  him  for  it ! 
He  could  not  understand  it.  Had  he  been  mean.'' 
Was  it  base  and  cowardly  and  ungrateful  to  do  as 
he  had  done  ?  Conscience  told  him  at  once  that  it 
was.  But  she  was  obtaining  regard  and  respect  under 
false  pretenses.  He  had  only  exposed  her — shown  her 
up  in  her  true  colors.  But  he  might  have  done  it  less 
harshly.  He  might  have  warned  her  in  private  conver- 
sation. He  might  have  spared  her  the  arrow  that 
brought  that  wailing  cry  with  which  she  had  fled  away. 
Conscience  could  not  be  argued  off  from  these  grounds. 

But  would  these  men  who  were  blaming  him  now, 
would  they  have  been  more  considerate  in  his  place .'' 
Their  conduct  and  language  toward  him  said  that  they 
would.  He  wondered  if  it  were  true.  Had  he  less 
manliness,  delicacy,  and  gratitude  than  the  great  flaming 
giant  Edgerton .?  It  seemed  so.  And  thus  retribution 
came  swiftly  upon  him.  Geofl'rey  Hunter  felt  debased 
because  he  had  done  a  mean  act ;  not  sorrowful  because 
he  had  trodden  under  foot  so  fair  a  flower  of  love. 

And  yet  Captain  Edgerton  and  his  fellow-offlcers 
were  unjust  in  their  view  of  Geoffrey  Hunter's  conduct. 
Every  one  of  them  would  have  done  the  same  or  worse 
had  they  been  in  his  place.  The  difl"erence  was  that 
they  had  seen  the  woman  Mrs.  Hunter,  and  could  not 
conceive  (although  their  reason  assured  them  it  was 
true)   that   she   had   ever  been   the   slave-girl   Toinette; 


382  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

while  Geoffrey  Hunter  had  only  seen  and  known  her  as 
a  slave-girl,  and  did  not  dream  that  she  was  but  the 
shell  within  which  slept  the  woman — the  lady — Mrs. 
Hunter. 

Edgerton  read  the  doctor's  letter  which  Toinette 
had  given  him,  and  as  he  concluded  the  surgeon  himself 
appeared  and  informed  Geoffrey  of  the  object  of  the 
transfer,  stating  that  it  had  been  ordered  by  the  Presi- 
dent on  account  of  Mrs.  Hunter's  earnest  entreaty  in 
his  behalf. 

Geoffrey  remembered  the  cheery  tones  of  Toinette 
as  she  came  down  the  aisle  and  spoke  of  the  proof  of 
the  President's  kindness  which  she  held  in  her  hand. 
He  remembered,  too,  the  wailing  cry  and  tottering  steps 
with  which  she  had  fled  from  him  after  he  had  spoken. 
He  knew  then  that  she  had  come  to  bring  him  this  mes- 
sage of  hope  and  joy,  and  that  it  was  this  which  had 
made  her  step  so  light  and  her  tone  so  joyous.  And  he 
had  stricken  the  bearer  of  glad  tidings.  It  was  too  bad — 
altogether  too  bad.  She  was  a  kind-hearted,  thoughtful 
girl,  and  he  was  a  brute  to  speak  to  her  as  he  did.  He 
remembered  beating  Leon  once  for  waking  him  in  the 
night  by  howling  and  whining  without  cause,  as  he 
thought.  Even  after  that,  however,  the  faithful  brute  had 
kept  on  his  clamour,  and  finally  tore  the  covering  from 
his  bed,  forcing  him  to  rise.  When  he  did  so  and  opened 
the  door  of  his  room,  he  found  the  block  in  which  he 
lodged  on  fire.  In  a  few  minutes  more  the  avenues  of 
escape  would  have  been  cut  off.  He  remembered  put- 
ting his  arms  about  the  shaggy  neck,  when  they  were  in 
safety,  and  begging  the  pardon  of  the  faithful  creature 


IN  HIS  MARK.  383 

with  tears  and  caresses  for  his  unreasoning  harshness. 
Somehow,  he  felt  so  towards  Toinette  now.  He  could 
not  keep  back  the  tears  which  welled  up  into  the  eyes  to 
which  the  poor  girl  was  so  anxious  to  restore  the  light. 
He  would  acknowledge  his  brutality,  when  he  saw  her 
again,  and  make  amends  by  kindness  in  the  future  for 
his  harshness  of  to-day.  She  was  a  good  girl.  Would 
she  forget  his  unkindness  as  old  Leon  had  done }  He 
hoped  she  would.  Why  should  n't  she  1  Yet,  some- 
how, he  had  a  doubt. 

He  groped  his  \vay  to  Edgerton's  cot  and  told  him 
he  could  not  accept  the  wager  he  had  won.  He  was 
sorry  he  had  been  so  harsh  to  the  poor  girl.  Would 
Edgerton  tell  his  comrades  when  he  had  gone  that  he 
regretted  his  meanness  ?  He  would  apologize  to  her 
himself. 

The  large-hearted  cannoneer  took  the  apology  for 
more  than  it  meant,  and  responded  : 

"So  you  ought,  Hunter,  so  you  ought;  for,  notwith- 
standing all  that 's  passed,  I  still  say  she  's  an  angel  and 
would  almost  make  a  heaven  herself." 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 

DISPATCH    BOAT    NO.    p. 

DISPATCH  Boat  No.  9  was  one  of  those  little  steam 
yachts  which  constituted  the  eyes  and  ears  of  the 
Federal  fleets,  the  pilot  fishes  of  their  men-of-war,  the 
courier-pigeons  of  the  deep.  Who  that  witnessed  any 
portion  of  the  struggle  on  the  coast  or  along  our  great 
rivers  does  not  remember  these  wonderful  little  speci- 
mens of  marine  architecture?  Ever  alert,  coming  and 
going,  they  seemed  more  like  living  creatures  than  any 
other  mechanism  that  man  has  devised.  One  moment 
lying  at  the  wharf  with  steam  up — seemingly  as  restive 
of  the  cable  and  snub-post  as  the  blooded  steed  of  the 
knotted  rein, — the  next  instant  scurrying  off  with  a  frol- 
icsome, .  self-important  air,  the  crazy  wheels  leaving  a 
foamy  wake  line  far  behind.  What  an  air  of  mysterious 
reticence  there  was  about  the  puffing,  restless  creatures ! 
Out  into  the  storm  and  darkness  at  night-fall,  going 
none  knew  whither — with  a  bustling,  self-conceited  air 
that  provoked  a  smile — breasting  the  billows  and  taking 
the  wind  in  their  teeth  as  if  they  gloried  in  the  resist- 
ance of  tempest  and  wave,  or  bursting  at  morning  out 
of  the  darkness  "  that  hung  over  river  and  lea,"  like 
creatures  born  of  the  night  and  the  mist,  they  were  ever 
the  same  prescient,  cunning  litttle  monsters,  with  the 
artful,  knowing  leer  of  Venus'  Dolphins,  and  the  speed 


DISPA  rCH  BOA  T  No.  9.  38/) 

of  winged-footed  Mercury  charged  with  the  commands 
of  Jove — riddles  which  the  great  silent  sea  propounded 
ever  to  the  dwellers  on  the  land.  Like  a  woman  they 
were  always  stirring  up  a  strife,  yet  never  in  it.  Thread- 
ing their  way  among  looming  navies  like  a  street  Arab 
tlirough  a  crowd.  Always  ready  for  a  voyage  of  an 
hour  or  a  month.  At  home  in  the  crowded  roadstead 
or  on  the  billowy  deep,  trying  the  unexplored  channel 
or  bumping  their  noses  upon  the  sand  bar.  Whirring 
by  the  sentry  on  the  fortress,  casting  the  red  gleam 
of  its  signal-light  on  the  distant  picket,  disappearing 
in  the  haze  of  summer's  evening,  or  springing,  dripping 
and  sleety  from  the  mist  of  winter's  morning,  the  Dis- 
patch Boat  was  ever  the  same  unresting,  inscrutable 
little  mystery. 

Who  that  saw  them  has  not  watched  them  hour  by 
hour,  trying  vainly  to  guess  the  import  of  the  messages 
they  bore  ?  Was  this  one  outward  bound,  bearing 
orders  to  Dupont  or  Farragut,  or  merely  carrying  some 
gallant  official  *'  Salt  "  to  a  scene  of  revelry.^  Was  that, 
breasting  the  rushing  river,  freighted  with  momentous 
tidings  for  the  silent  Hammer  at  Petersburg,  or  only 
bearing  some  favored  fair  one  to  the  embrace  of  her 
hero?  Mercury  served  Venus  not  less  frequently  than 
Mars. 

The  very  Queen  of  this  fleet  of  Mother  Gary  Chick- 
ens, which  tossed  about  in  the  teeth  of  the  war-tempest, 
was  Dispatch  Boat  No.  9.  Before  the  war,  she  had  been 
one  of  the  most  perfect  and  complete  of  the  floating 
palaces  which  Fashion  prescribed  as  the  correct  thing 
for  the  nautically  inclined  spendthrift  and  pleasure  seek- 

R 


386  A   ROYAL    GENTLEMAN. 

er.  No  pains  had  been  spared  in  her  make  and  equip- 
ment. Little  compact  engines,  running  swift  and  smooth, 
with  perfect-fitting  joints  and  noiseless  bearings,  beauti- 
ful as  toys,  yet  strong  as  banded  giants ;  full  of  strange 
nooks  and  cosy  corners ;  every  inch  of  space  improved, 
and  every  art  exhausted  to  fill  that  space  with  comfort ; 
she  was  in  everything  a  wonder  of  skillful  workmanship 
and  patient  ingenuity. 

When  the  war  came  on,  her  patriotic  owner,  having 
theretofore  been  worth  very  little  either  to  himself  or 
his  country,  suddenly  made  the  startling  determination 
to  offer  himself  and  his  costly  toy  to  the  Government 
for  the  war,  and,  greatly  to  his  surprise,  both  were  ac- 
cepted. So  he  doffed  his  fancy  sailor  rig  and  put  on  the 
regulation  blue,  pulled  down  the  silken  pennant,  shipped 
a  brass  howitzer,  ran  up  the  triangular  bunting  with  the 
white  field  and  scarlet  edge  bearing  the  mystic  numeral, 
and  the  queen  of  sea  palaces  and  the  Commodore  of  the 
Yacht  Club  were  transformed  into  Dispatch  Boat  No.  9 
and  her  Lieutenant  Commanding. 

Upon  this  craft  the  President  with  two  or  three  at- 
tendants, and  the  surgeon,  his  patient,  and  the  nurse, 
were  to  make  the  passage  to  Washington.  All  were 
ready  at  the  appointed  hour  except  Toinette.  The  sur- 
geon, fearing  that  she  would  be  left,  went  in  search  of 
her  and  found  her  kneeling  in  a  sort  of  stupor  by  the 
hard  pallet  which  she  occupied  in  the  nurses'  ward. 
She  did  not  seem  to  have  been  weeping,  but  she  an- 
swered his  enquiries  vaguely,  her  eyes  were  heavy  and 
bloodshot,  and  her  head  burning  with  fever.  The  kind 
surgeon,  who   traced  all  evils  to  a  physical   cause,  in-- 


DISPA  TCH  BOA  T  No.  9.  387 

stinctively  diagnosed  the  case  with  one  hand  upon  her 
pulse  and  the  other  laid  inquiringly  upon  her  forehead 
— and  this  is  what  he  thought : 

Over-work,  excitement,  the  prospect  of  getting  this 
good-for-nothing  Confederate  fire-eater  to  Washington 
and  restoring  his  sight,  was  too  much  for  the  poor 
woman. 

"  She  *s  been  a  slave  to  him,  anyhow,"  he  muttered, 
little  knowing  how  near  his  thought  came  to  the  sad 
truth  which  underlay  her  suffering.  "  Strange  she 
thinks  so  much  of  him.  Lucky  she  's  going  out  of 
this  malarious  atmosphere,  too.  Threatened  with  con- 
gestion now." 

What  he  did  was  to  shake  her  smartly  and  bid  her, 
with  unwonted  harshness,  prepare  for  the  journey.  She 
obeyed  him,  mechanically.  Mearrwhile,  he  took  his  pre- 
scription book  from  his  pocket  and  wrote  on  one  of  the 
blanks  a  few  lines  in  the  hieroglyphics  of  his  profession. 

Calling  an  attendant,  he  sent  it  to  the  dispensary  ; 
when  she  returned,  he  took  the  wine-glass  which  she 
brought  from  her  hand,  and,  first  shaking  and  smelling 
the  mixture  with  professional  caution,  directed  Toinette 
brusquely  to  "Take  it,  and  come  along." 

She  obeyed,  and  giving  her  little  baggage  to  a  mes- 
senger in  w^aiting,  bade  adieu  to  the  friends  whom  she 
had  found  during  her  hospital  service,  and  leaning  upon 
the  arm  of  the  old  surgeon,  went  to  the  landing  and  on 
board  the  boat. 

Geoffrey  had  arrived  before  them,  having  been 
brought  in  an  ambulance,  and  his  self-importance  was 
somewhat  wounded  that  neither    of  them  was  there  to 


388  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

attend  to  his  wants.  The  surgeon  had  made  arrange- 
ments that  he  should  be  placed  in  the  quietest  part  of 
the  boat,  and  one  of  its  miniature  state-rooms  had  been 
appropriated  to  Toinette's  use. 

On  this  little  craft  there  could  not  be  much  seclu- 
sion, but  it  was  not  until  the  evening  meal  that  Toinette 
came  forth  and  joined  the  little  company  on  the  deck. 

Geoffrey,  in  his  narrow  berth  below,  had  several 
times  inquired  for  his  nurse,  and  had  been  informed  by 
the  Surgeon,  somewhat  sententiously,  that  Mrs.  Hunter 
was  too  sick  to  attend  upon  him. 

Upon  the  deck  the  unassuming  ease  and  cordiality 
of  the  President,  with  his  quaint  and  characteristic 
humor,  made  this  Spring  evening  one  long  to  be  remem- 
bered by  those  who  were  privileged  to  participate  in 
its  joys. 

The  thrilling  events  of  the  past  few  days,  with  the 
still  more  important  results  that  were  looked  for  hourly, 
were  the  themes  of  conversation,  and  when  these  had 
been  duly  canvassed  the  scenery  through  which  they 
were  passing,  and  its  historic  associations,  formed  sub- 
jects of  pleasant  intercourse.  The  Commander  of  the 
little  craft  gave  a  narrative  of  her  adventures  and 
escapes  daring  the  struggle.  As  the  evening  wore  on 
Mr.  Lincoln  seemed  to  grow  quiet  and  moody.  His 
questioning  spirit  was  asking  strange  things  of  the  glori- 
ous moonlight,  the  flowing  river,  and  the  darkening 
land.  His  restless,  hesitating  soul  was  throwing  out 
tentacles  into  the  future.  The  questions  which  arose  in 
his  mind  were  so  overwhelming  in  their  character  that 
they  very  soon  crushed  out  the  conversation,  and    the 


DISPA  TCH  BOA  T  No.  9.  389 

great  man  on  whose  heart  they  rested  by  day  and  by 
night  sat  with  bowed  head,  and  with  that  look  of 
weariness  which  marked  the  latter  years  of  his  life 
watched  the  course  of  the  boat  as  she  sped  on  her  way. 
The  others  were  hushed  into  silence  bv  his  solemn  sad- 
ness. 

After  a  time  Dr.  Kirkland  broke  the  stillness,  which 
was  becoming  painful,  by  asking  Toinette  to  sing.  She 
declined,  out  of  regard  for  the  silent  presence  in  their 
midst.  Mr.  Lincoln  had  heard  the  request,  though  seem- 
ingly unobservant,  and  at  once  seconded  the  desire  for 
a  song. 

So  Toinette,  with  the  thought  of  the  great  careworn, 
overburdened  heart  before  her,  and  the  scath  of  the 
great  sorrow  yet  fresh  in  her  memory,  looked  out  upon 
the  deepening  gloom  and  sung : 

Oh,  why  should  we  fear  when  the  tempest  comes  down, 
And  the  storm  glowers  o'er  us  with  pitiless  frown  ? 
The  clouds  that  above  us  so  threateningly  lower 
But  re-echo  the  mandate  of  Infinite  Power  : 

"  Hush,  terrified  souls  !  as  in  darkness  ye  plod, 
Be  still,  and  remember  that  I  am  your  God ! 

"  Why  deem  that  thy  burden  of  sorrow  and  care 

Is  more  than  thy  faltering  spirit  can  bear  ? 

Why  shrink  from  the  task  to  thy  moments  assigned? 

He  knoweth  thy  weakness — He  tempers  the  wind. 
Be  still — and  but  think,  as  the  wine  press  is  trod, 
*Tis  the  will  of  thy  Father — the  vineyard  of  God  ! 

"  Though  the  thunders  above  thee  unceasingly  roll 
His  eye  watches  ever  thy  storm-driven  soul ; 
Though  the  grave  yawns  before,  in  impervious  gloom 
Yet  the  Infinite  dwells  in  the  shade  of  the  tomb. 
Be  still  and  remember,  oh  murmuring  clod, 
Thy  Future  is  only  the  Present  of  God  !" 


390  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

Toinette's  voice  rang  out  in  the  darkness,  mingling 
with  the  rush  of  waters  about  the  tiny  craft,  and  the  cool 
breath  which  came  from  a  dark  storm-cloud  that  hung 
upon  her  quarter.  Geoffrey  heard  it,  and  was  filled  with 
jealous  anger  that  she  should  sing  for  other  ears  than 
his. 

The  gloom  faded  out  of  the  face  of  the  President,  as 
he  came  toward   her  and  said : 

"  I  thank  you,  Madam,  for  uttering  in  song  the  truths 
which  ought  to  live  in  my  heart  at  this  time." 

He  pressed  her  hand  in  gratitude.  The  little  group 
broke  up  and  sleep  soon  wrapt  in  unconsciousness  her 
strangely  gathered  passengers,  -while  Dispatch  Boat  No.  9 
battled  with  the  storm  and  sped  on,  with  characteristic 
self-importance,  as  if  she  knew  the  precious  freight  she 
bore 


CHAPTER    XXXIX 

LIGHT. 

GEOFFREY  did  not  meet  Toinette  during  the  trip. 
He  had  an  indistinct  notion  that  she  had  bent 
over  his  cot  while  he  slept,  and  kissed  him.  He  could 
not  be  sure,  however.  It  might  have  been  a  dream. 
Certain  it  was  that  she  did  not  come  to  him  in  his 
waking  hours.  Upon  their  arrival  at  Washington  he 
was  transferred  to  one  of  the  numerous  hospitals  in 
that  city,  where  Dr.  Kirkland  left  him  to  rest  and  re- 
cruit his  strength  while  he  himself  paid  a  brief  visit 
to  his  family  in  New  York.  Before  he  left,  Geoffrey 
asked  him  in  as  unconcerned  a  manner  as  he  could, 
why  his  old  nurse  had  not  been  with  him  since  his 
transfer,  adding  that  he  thought  the  order  included  her 
also. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Hunter!"  said  the  doctor,  carelessly. 
"  Yes,  the  order  did  include  transportation  for  her,  but 
on  our  arrival  here  she  said  she  could  not  stay  away 
from  her  home  longer,  and  so  went  on  this  m.orning," 
he  answered. 

"  I  should  have  thought  she  might  have  staid  to 
see  the  result  of  your  experiment,  after  having  me 
dragged  here  to  endure  it,"  said  Geoffrey,  petulantly. 

"  There  is  no  compulsion  about  the  matter,  Colonel 
Hunter.     You    need    not    endure    the    operation    unless 


o 


92  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 


you  desire,"  answered  the  surgeon,  quickly,  with  the 
tone  of  offended  dignity  one  always  employs  when  his 
craft  is  assailed.  He  resented,  too,  his  patient's  in- 
gratitude to  his  devoted  nurse, 

"  Oh,  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings,  doctor. 
Of  course  I  wish  the  operation  to  be  performed,  and 
can  never  sufficiently  thank  you  for  the  interest  you 
have  taken  in  my  case.  I  only  thought  she  ought 
not  to  have  deserted  me,"  replied  Geoffrey,  apologet- 
ically. 

But  the  surgeon  was  stubborn.  Once  started  on  a 
train  of  thought  he  was  loth  to  abandon  it.  He  would 
not  let  his  patient  off  so  easily,  but  said  : 

"  I  do  n't  see  why  you  should  blame  Mrs.  Hunter 
for  obtaining  for  you  just  what  you  desire.  I  should 
think  that  you  ought  rather  to  thank  her  for  a  last 
chance  of  recovery." 

"  Yes,  but  she  knew  I  would  be  lonely  and  worried 
here,  and  I  had  got  used  to  her  ways.  She  ought  to 
have  staid  and  helped  me  pass  the  Rubicon  at  least," 
answered   Geoffrey,  fretfully, 

"  But  you  forget.  Colonel  Hunter,  that  she  undoubt- 
edly owes  duties  to  others  as  well  as  to  you.  She 
tells  me  that  she  has  a  child  of  four,  though  she  don't 
look  twenty  herself,  poor  dear.  Of  course,  she  is  anx- 
ious about  him  after  so  long  absence  with  the  army,  and 
you  ought  not  to  blame  her  for  going  to  see  him 
after  all   she   has  done   for  you,"  the  surgeon  rejoined. 

Geoffrey  answered  nothing ;  the  surgeon's  words 
were  too  true  to  be  argued.  How  true  he  did  not 
know  who   uttered   them.      Geoffrey  wondered   whether 


LIGHT.  393 

they  had  any  covert  meaning — whether  the  surgeon  was 
aware  of  the  true  relations  between  himself  and  Toi- 
nette.  He  could  think  of  no  question  that  would  cast 
light  upon  this  subject  without  awakening  suspicion, 
and  so  said  no  more  about  it. 

The  surgeon  called  an  attendant  and  gave  particu- 
lar directions  with  regard  to  the  diet  and  care  of  his 
patient  during  his  absence.  He  had  consulted  several 
practitioners  of  eminence  in  the  profession,  and  w^as  the 
more  convinced  by  a  comparison  of  views  with  them 
that  there  was  no  actual  disease  of  the  organs  of  vision, 
but  simple  torpidity  of  the  nerves  connected  with  them 
consequent  upon  the  shock  of  the  wound  and  the 
subsequent  inflammation  of  the  surrounding  parts. 

He  proposed  to  employ  certain  stimulants  to  restore 
the  normal  action  of  these  nerves,  and  in  case  of  their 
failure  so  to  do,  which  he  fully  anticipated  from  his  pre- 
vious treatment,  he  then  proposed  to  apply  electricity, 
from  which  he  hoped  for  good  results ;  but  in  case  he 
should  fail  by  this  means,  he  resolved  to  attempt  an 
operation  which  he  had  long  contemplated — an  opera- 
tion of  extreme  delicacy,  which  only  one  man  had 
hitherto  been  daring  enough  and  skillful  enough  to  at- 
tempt. His  counsel  and  perhaps  assistance  Dr.  Kirk- 
land  expected  to  procure  in  this  case. 

In  order  that  either  of  these  courses  of  treatment 
should  succeed,  it  was  necessary  that  the  patient  should 
avoid  all  excitement  and  irritation.  This  fact  was  very 
strongly  impressed  both  on  the  patient  and  the  nurse. 
Having  thus  cautioned  the  man  in  whom  he  had 
taken   such   unusual   interest,   he   departed.     Upon    the 


394  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

little  slate  at  the  head  of  Geoffrey's  cot  he  left  a  writ- 
ten statement  for  the  attending  physician,  giving  the 
name  and  rank  of  the  patient,  and  the  history  of  the 
case. 

Before  morning  came  again,  the  blackest  pall  which 
ever  enwrapt  a  sorrowing  nation  hung  over  the  American 
people.  In  the  very  hour  of  final  triumph,  when  grati- 
tude and  mercy  filled  his  heart  to  overflowing,  Abraham 
Lincoln  died  by  the  assassin's  hand  ! 

At  the  first,  horror  hushed  every  tongue.  Thought 
was  paralyzed  by  the  terrible  tragedy.  Then  sorrow,  the 
most  intense  and  solemn,  swept  over  the  land,  and  the 
Martyr-President  was  borne  to  his  prairie  tomb  amid 
the  regretful  silence  of  his  enemies,  and  the  bursting 
grief  of  millions,  in  whose  hearts  and  memories  his  name 
was  enshrined  as  the  noblest,  the  truest,  the  grandest  of 
earth. 

And,  as  the  people  whom  he  trusted  and  revered 
thronged  the  route  of  the  sad  pilgrimage  and  gazed 
upon  that  dark,  sad  face — rugged  and  grim  in  feature, 
wan  and  weary  in  life,  but  peaceful  and  benignant  in 
death — as  crowding  millions  came  with  bowed  heads  and 
streaming  eyes,  as  loving  hands  and  aching  hearts 
showered  on  his  senseless  clay  the  emblems  of  tender 
remembrance — in  that  hour,  there  came  to  every  heart, 
unsyllabled  and  unuttered,  the  knowledge  that  this  man 
was  of  God  ;  that  the  same  mysterious  Providence  which 
had  once  rebuked  the  pride  of  Israel  by  choosing  the 
lowly  Nazarene  for  the  indwelling  of  His  Spirit,  had,  in 
these  latter  days,  selected  this  halting,  trembling,  self- 
distrusting    seeker  after  aid — this   "  Poor  White,"  upon 


LIGHT.  395 

whose  birth  rested  the  blight  of  slavery's  baneful  influ- 
ence— and  consecrated  him  to  the  holy  work  which, 
like  the  Son  of  God,  he  had  consummated  only  in  his 
death. 

Others  may  have  been  greater  in  gifts  and  learning, 
in  intellect  and  will,  more  brilliant  in  action,  more  fertile 
in  resource,  more  varied  in  accomplishment,  more  com- 
manding in  power ; — but  in  the  glory  of  a  high  and  holy 
purpose,  faithfully,  trustfully  and  tenderly  fulfilled ;  of 
a  transcendent  mission  executed  with  unwearying  humil- 
ity and  zeal,  Abraham  Lincoln  stands  the  first  among 
the  men  whom  the  ages  have  brought  forth — that  man 
who  walked  "  with  firmness  in  the  right,  as  God  gives 
us  to  see  the  right  " — "  with  malice  toward  none,  and 
with  charity  for  all." 

The  knowledge  of  this  tragedy  came  with  peculiar 
force  to  Geoffrey  Hunter.  He  was  no  admirer  of  the 
man  who  had  passed  away,  yet  he  could  not  forget  that 
he  had  received  the  most  extraordinary  kindness  at  his 
hands,  and  that  he  had  requited  his  courtesy  only  with 
the  most  inexcusable  insult. 

As,  hour  after  hour,  the  sound  of  mourning,  the 
hushed  murmur  of  affliction,  which  attended  this  calam- 
ity came  to  his  ears,  his  mind  could  dwell  only  upon  his 
brutal  reply  to  the  kind  inquiry  which  Mr.  Lincoln  had 
addressed  to  him,  and  the  favor  which  the  President  had 
afterwards  extended  to  him.  He  would  have  given  any- 
thing could  the  man  he  had  scorned  but  have  lived 
until  he  had  thanked  him  for  a  generous  act  towards  an 
undeserving  foe,  and  begged  forgiveness  for  his  unjusti- 
fiable conduct. 


30G  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

It  was  not  in  the  nature  of  Geoffrey  Hunter  to 
smother  any  sentiment  which  might  obtain  lodgment  in 
his  mind,  and  this  thought  so  troubled  him  that,  instead 
of  that  repose  which  his  friend  the  surgeon  desired,  a 
state  of  the  most  intense  nervous  excitement  supervened. 
His  brain  seemed  on  fire  with  a  wild  agony.  A  fierce 
griping  pain  compressed  his  temples  as  in  a  vice,  and 
the  course  of  the  terrible  wound,  which  had  caused  his 
suffering,  seemed  lined  with  seared  and  smoking  fibers. 

The  optic  nerves,  which  brought  no  message  from 
the  outer  world,  so  thrilled  Avith  the  terrible  shock  which 
had  doomed  them  to  darkness  that  they  pictured  con- 
stantly to  the  seething  brain  the  torn  and  shattered 
fibers  along  the  missile's  course,  shrinking  and  trem- 
bling, bathed  in  the  lurid  light  which  marks  the  dis- 
charge of  fire-arms.  He  seemed  to  see  the  wound  fresh 
and  livid  along  its  whole  course. 

The  sense  of  hearing  became  also  a  source  of  tor- 
ture. The  waves  of  sound  beat  upon  the  tense  mem- 
branes  with  a  fearful  violence.  The  most  perfect  silence 
attainable  was  to  him  instinct  with  terrific  sound.  The 
rustling  of  the  clothing  of  his  cot,  the  footfall  of  the 
attendant,  the  song  of  birds,  the  very  waving  of  the 
leaves  was  torture  the  most  exquisite  and  intense  to  his- 
throbbing  nerves. 

To  add  to  this  deleterious  excitement  came  the 
knowledge,  retailed  by  some  thoughtless  attendant,  that 
the  surgeon,  upon  whose  aid  he  knew  Dr.  Kirkland  had 
chiefly  relied  in  the  performance  of  the  operation  which 
he  feared  might  become  necessary,  was  dead.  He  was 
the  very  head  of  his  profession — ''''facile  princeps  " — no 


LIGHT.  397 

hand  so  skillful,  no  eye  so  accurate,  no  judgment  so  un- 
erring as  his.  No  one  else  had  ever  been  so  daring  as 
to  attempt  this  operation ;  nor  had  he  ever  performed 
it,  to  the  extent  which  might  become  necessary  in  Geof- 
frey Hunter's  case.  The  story  of  his  death  was  strangely 
tragic. 

He  had  risen  to  the  labor  of  the  day,  which  a  long 
life,  the  utmost  devotion  to  his  profession,  and  unparal- 
leled success  had  rendered  unusually  onerous,  and  was 
taking  his  morning  meal,  when  his  eye  fell  upon  the  an- 
nouncement which  clouded  the  land  with  gloom. 
"Abraham  Lincoln  is  dead  I" — he  exclaimed  in  tones  of 
horror,  and,  as  if  called  to  attend  the  man  his  soul 
revered  above  all  others,  in  the  journey  to  the  celestial 
gates,  the  great  physician  folded  his  hands,  as  if  in 
prayer,  and  was  no  more. 

Geoffrey  Hunter  felt  that  his  last  chance  for  restor- 
ation was  gone.  If  the  other  remedies  should  fail  he 
must  ever  grope  in  darkness.  It  was  a  terrible  prospect. 
He  prayed  for  death,  as  he  had  often  done  since  his 
affliction. 

When  he  thought  of  the  mysterious  connection  be- 
tween the  death  of  the  renowned  surgeon,  whose  life 
was  almost  his  only  hope,  and  the  man  whom  he  had 
so  grossly  affronted,  and  whose  kindness  he  had  never 
acknowledged,  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  was  a  judgment 
upon  him  for  his  ingratitude  and  meanness.  He  counted 
it  an  omen  of  misfortune,  and  gave  up  all  hope  of  re- 
covery. 

In  this  condition  the  good  old  surgeon  found  his 
patient   when    he    returned.      The    attendants   and    the 


398  ^  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

medical  officer  in  charge  of  the  Hospital  gave  him  a 
full  account  of  the  symptoms  during  his  absence.  To 
add  to  their  alarming  character  the  wound  had  broken 
out  afresh,  and  active  suppuration  was  in  progress. 
The  doctor  sat  by  the  cot  of  his  patient  for 
several  hours,  studying  his  condition  carefully.  With 
the  dogged  resolution  of  the  best  of  his  profession  he 
enjoyed  the  struggle  with  disease  when  it  became  des- 
perate, and  hated,  above  all  things,  to  yield  it  the  palm 
of  victory. 

He  did  not  particularly  care  to  save  this  man  more 
than  any  other.  Toinette  had  nursed  him  because  he 
was  Geoffrey  Hunter.  The  doctor  had  treated  him  be- 
cause it  was  a  very  rare  and  peculiar  wound — a  "  beau- 
tiful case  "  he  would  have  said  to  a  professional  brother. 
Perhaps,  too,  he  was  somewhat  interested  in  him  on 
Toinette's  account.  She  was  a  favorite  of  his,  and 
her  heart  was  evidently  wrapped  up,  somehow,  in  the 
life  of  this  stricken  man.  He  was  afraid  the  fellow 
had  treated  her  badly.  He  had  evidently  done  or  said 
something  which  had  made  her  anxious  to  avoid  fur- 
ther contact  with  him,  for  the  doctor  did  not  believe 
a  word  of  her  story  about  her  sudden  anxiety  to  be  at 
home.  So  after  thinking  a  long  time  he  went  to  the 
nearest  Telegraph  office  and  wrote  this  message : 
*'  Mrs.  Antoinette  Hunter,  Oberlin,  Ohio  : 

"  Come  instantly  if  you  would  save  G.  H, 

"Dr.    KiRKLAND." 

Forty-eight  hours  afterwards  Geoffrey  Hunter  had 
been  removed  from  the  General  Hospital,  and  was  domi- 
ciled in  quiet  quarters,  opening  upon  one  of  the  public 


LIGHT.  399 

squares  which  are  scattered  about  in  that  beautiful 
Capital,  and  at  his  bedside  sat  Toinette.  She  was  again 
the  faithful  nurse,  moving  noiselessly  about  the  room, 
anticipating  every  wish,  taking  every  precaution,  obser- 
ving every  direction ;  yet  never  obtruding  attention 
upon  the  patient. 

In  a  short  time  her  ministrations  gave  him  rest,  and 
the  man  of  science  began  to  see  points  of  light  again 
in  the  horoscope  of  Geoffrey  Hunter. 

Weeks  passed,  and  faithful  nursing  and  skillful  treat- 
ment were  again  successful.  The  wound  was  healed, 
and  the  patient's  nerves  so  invigorated  that  the  doctor 
decided  to  attempt  a  restoration  of  vision. 

The  room  was  darkened,  and  the  poles  of  a  light 
galvanic  battery,  one  of  which  was  so  shaped  as  to  fit 
the  orb  of  the  eye,  were  applied.  The  mysterious  fluid 
thrilled  along  the  torpid  nerves  and  brought  to  the 
darkened  brain  again  the  primal  message  of  creative 
power — ''Let  there  be  light." 

Day  after  day,  the  application  was  repeated  with  per- 
severing hope.  At  length  the  patient  spoke  of  seeing 
little  quivering  points  of  light  whenever  the  battery  was 
applied  ;  then  he  could  dimly  distinguish  figures  after  it 
was  removed.  Then  the  doctor  directed  his  eyes  to  be 
lightly  bandaged,  and  the  applications  were  made  more 
frequently,  though  not  always  directly  to  the  eyes.  He 
wished  to  stimulate  the  sluggish  nerves.  After  a  time 
he  daily  removed  the  bandages  for  a  short  time,  and 
little  by  little  admitted  the  light;  but  his  directions 
were  imperative  that  the  bandages  should  not  be  re- 
moved for  an  instant  during  his  absence. 


400  ^  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

During  these  visits  of  the  surgeon  he  had  insisted 
upon  Toinette's  taking  that  exercise  which  her  close 
attendance  upon  the  sick  man  rendered  imperative  to 
her  health,  so  that  Geoftrey  had  never  seen  his  nurse, 
nor  did  she  know  the  actual  progress  which  he  was 
making  toward  recovery.  The  doctor  had  his  own 
notions  and  kept  his  own  counsel.  At  length  he  asked 
her  one  morning,  upon  returning  from  her  walk,  to  come 
into  the  room. 

She  was  dressed  in  the  pretty  walking  habit  which 
prevailed  at  that  time,  gay  with  the  bright  colors  of  the 
early  summer  styles.  Exercise  and  health  lighted  up 
her  eyes  and  flushed  her  cheeks.  The  doctor  thought 
her  beautiful.  Now  was  the  time  for  the  stroke  which 
he  had  been  so  long  meditating.  He  would  not  wait 
for  her  to  remove  her  bonnet  or  gloves,  but  brought 
her  in,  just  as  she  left  the  promenade. 

The  shades  were  drawn  aside,  and  the  morning  sun 
was  pouring  his  full  radiance  into  the  room.  Leaning 
upon  the  propped-up  pillows,  with  those  glorious  eyes 
bathed  in  the  radiance  of  restored  vision  and  shrinking 
not  from  the  bright  sunlight,  was  Geoffrey  Hunter. 

"  Colonel  Hunter,"  said  the  old  doctor,  somewhat 
sententiously,  "  allow  me  to  introduce  the  person  to 
whom  you  are  mainly  indebted  for  your  life  and  for 
your  restored  vision ;  Mrs.  Hunter,"  and  he  waved  his 
hand  pompously  toward  the  bright  vision  at  his 
side. 

Toinette  had,  at  the  first  sight  of  Geoffrey,  started 
toward  him,  with  an  involuntary  cry  of  joy.  Collecting 
her    thoughts,   she    stopped    midway  of  the    room,    her 


LIGHT.  401 

hands  clasped  and  tears  of  joy  running  down  her 
cheeks. 

Suddenly  her  face  and  brow  flushed  painfully,  and 
with  a  low,  sobbing  cry  she  turned  and  fled  from  the 
room. 

It  would  be  hard  to  describe  the  expression  of  Geof- 
frey Hunter's  face  as  the  old  doctor  turned  an  inquiring 
glance  toward  him. 

Surprise  and  doubt  seemed  strangely  mixed  with  re- 
gret in  his  flushed  countenance. 

The  doctor  had  played  his  kindly  little  game  and 
failed.  He  was  still  more  puzzled  that  afternoon  when 
Mrs.  Hunter  called  at  his  room,  and,  after  asking  if 
Geoffrey's  recovery  was  complete  and  perfect,  and  being 
assured  that  it  was,  bade  him  good-by. 

But  he  was  amazed  when  Geofl"rey  asked  the  next 
morning,  "Where  is — is — Mrs.  Hunter.?" 

"  Where  is  she  1  Why,  gone  home  !  gone  back  to 
Oberlin  !     Didn't  she  let  you  know  she  was  going.?" 

The  kind-hearted  Esculapius  gave  it  up  then.  There 
was  something  quite  inscrutable  about  those  two  young 
people.  They  were  clearly  made  for  each  other,  and  he 
believed  by  no  means  indifferent  to  one  another.  Yet 
one  was  a  widow,  the  other  a  stupid  bachelor,  and  both 
seemed  only  anxious  to  get  as  far  from  one  another  as 
possible. 


CHAPTER  XL, 


KNIGHT     ERRANT. 


GEOFFREY  HUNTER  was  forbidden  excitement 
or  employment.  Weeks,  perhaps  months,  of  rest, 
were  deemed  essential  to  his  complete  and  perfect  re- 
covery. The  good  doctor  expected  to  remain  in  the 
city  at  least  until  the  debris  of  the  war  had  been  cleared 
away  and  the  Government  was  once  more  on  a  peace 
footing.  He  knew  there  was  no  way  to  keep  the  rest- 
less young  rebel  in  reasonable  subjection  to  hygienic 
rules  except  to  represent  the  danger  of  relapse  as  im- 
minent, and  require  his  daily  attendance  at  his  office 
for  inspection. 

With  the  rest  of  his  compatriots,  therefore.  Col. 
Hunter  gave  his  parole  of  honor  and  was  at  liberty  to 
go  wherever  he  chose,  subject  only  to  the  dictates  of 
Dr.  Kirkland.  He  owed  too  much  to  him  to  disregard 
them  lightly.  So  he  wandered  about  the  streets  of 
Washington  day  after  day,  watching — sometimes  with 
amusement  and  sometimes  with  indignation — the  break- 
ing up  of  the  great  army  which  had  overwhelmed  and 
smothered  the  rebellion.  He  saw,  without  resentment, 
the  smartly  dressed,  thoroughly-drilled  soldiers  of  the 
East,  and  the  bronzed  and  shabby  veterans  of  the  West, 
but  when  he  beheld  battalions  of  armed  negroes  march- 
ing along  the  Avenue  amid  the  plaudits  of  thousands, 


KNIGHT  ERRANT.  403 

or  acting  as  guards  and  orderlies  at  the  Departments 
and  the  White  House,  his  whole  nature  revolted  with 
disgust.  He  became  a  rebel  again  in  heart  and  wished 
that  lie  had  never  signed  the  parole,  a  copy  of  which 
he  carried  in  his  pocket.  He  began  to  wonder,  even, 
if  he  were  bound  to  observe  a  pledge  given  to  a  Gov- 
ernment which  could  so  infamously  degrade  and  insult 
every  white  man  in  its  limits.  Then  he  grew  restive 
and  excitable.  The  atmosphere  of  Washington  seemed 
charged  with  a  baleful  electricity.  He,  himself,  was 
full  of  hatred  and  disgust.  He  must  go  away  soon  or 
there  would  be  an  explosion  which,  though  it  might 
hurt  no  one  else,  would  assuredly  demolish  himself. 

He  told  the  old  doctor  so  ;  and  that  worthy,  seeing 
that  his  power  was  relaxing,  surrendered  at  discretion, 
only  stipulating  for  as  much  time  as  he  could  obtain 
before  delivering  his  patient  up  to  the  future  and  him- 
self. It  was  arranged,  therefore,  that  before  the  "  dog 
days  "  settled  upon  the  dusty,  miasmatic  metropolis,  he 
should  give  his  parole  of  prudence  to  the  good  physician 
and  depart. 

When  this  time  had  arrived,  Geoffrey  approached 
the  doctor,  whom,  despite  his  kindness,  he  could  not 
help  regarding  as  a  Yankee  and  therefore  as  purely 
mercenary  in  all  his  acts,  for  the  purpose  of  offering 
payment  for  the  care  which  he  had  received  from  him. 
He  doubted  not — or  tried  not  to  doubt — that  gain  had 
been  the  motive  of  all  his  seeming  kindness.  And  he 
would  admit  that  he  deserved  reward.  He  had  been 
untiring,  faithful,  and  had  proved  himself  profoundly 
skilled  in  his  profession. 


404  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

With  these  views  he  called  upon  Dr.  Kirkland  and 
inquired  almost  pompously  what  he  should  pay  him  for 
his  services. 

"What,  sir?"  said   the  old   doctor  in  surprise. 

Ceoffrey  repeated  his  inquiry. 

The  old  surgeon  laid  down  his  pen,  for  he  was  mak- 
ing out  his  daily  report,  and  turned  his  office-chair 
round  toward  his  visitor. 

"  Colonel  Hunter,"  he  said  in  serious  tones,  "  since 
you  were  brought  in  from  Fort  Hell,  wounded,  I  have 
attended  you  faithfully,  have  I  not.?" 

"Indeed,  you  have,"  answered  Geoffrey,  warmly; 
"and  I  desire  to  pay  you  liberally." 

"  Allow  me  to  inform  you,  Colonel  Hunter,"  replied 
the  doctor,  "  that  the  Government  of  the  United  States 
pays  me  for  my  time  and  rewards  my  services.  I  at- 
tended you  as  a  prisoner  of  war  simply,  and  in  my 
official  capacity." 

"  I  had  flattered  myself  that  I  had  received  unusual 
attention,"  said  Geoffrey,  somewhat  bitterly. 

"Yours  was  an  unusual  case,"  said  the  surgeon, 
calmly. 

"  You  will  not  allow  me  to  offer  you  any  further 
compensation,  then.?"  said  Geoffrey. 

"Colonel  Hunter,"  responded  the  doctor,  "  you  must 
be  aware  that  it  would  be   an  insult  to  me  to  offer  it." 

"Pshaw!"  said  Geoffrey.  "You  only  wish  to  hu- 
miliate me  by  trying  to  insist  on  my  obligations  to  the 
government.  It  is  not  the  government  to  whom  I  am 
indebted,  but  to  you,  and  I  insist  upon  tendering  pay- 
ment." 


KNIGHT  ERRANT.  405 

The  doctor  tapped  a  bell  upon  his  desk,  and  said  : 

"  Colonel  Hunter,  your  unreasoning  devotion  to  the 
Confederacy  led  you  to  insult  President  Lincoln,  and 
drive  away  a  most  devoted  nurse;  and  now  you  would 
let  it  lead  you  to  quarrel  with  me.  You  cannot  see 
that  any  good  can  come  out  of  Nazareth.  I  hope  time 
will  cure  you.  He  is  a  grim  nurse,  but  he  accomplishes 
wonders  sometimes.  Good  by,"  he  continued,  as  an 
orderly  entered — "  avoid  labor  and  excitement  as  much 
you  can,  and  as  long.  You  had  better  travel  for  a 
while ;  it  will  divert  your  mind  and  restore  your  nervous 
system.  My  horse,  John,  for  Colonel  Hunter," — to  the 
orderly,  who  had  answered  the  bell.  "You  must  not 
walk  so  far  in  your  present  excited  state,  Colonel.  You 
can  tie  him  before  the  hotel,  and  John  will  bring  him 
back." 

Geoffrey  was  not  a  little  affected  and  was  somewhat 
non-plussed  by  this  final  exhibition  of  regard  on  the  part 
of  the  old  doctor.  Somehow  the  Yankee  surgeon  had 
surprised  him.  He  had  spoken  commiseratingly  of  him 
to  his  very  face  He  had  even  referred  to  his  previous 
acts  in  language  which  he  knew  they  deserved.  He  was 
not  used  to  being  treated  thus.  And  yet  the  offender 
had  been  very  kind  to  him.  He  could  not  be  angry  with 
him.  Was  he  ungrateful,  or  had  he  mistaken  the  char- 
acter of  his  enemies.?  He  held  out  his  hand,  and  said, 
somewhat  ruefully: 

"  At  least,  doctor,  I  may  offer  you  my  thanks  for 
your  services.?" 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  said  the  doctor  cheerfully, 
shaking  the   proffered  hand.       "  And    I    am    right    glad 


406  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

they  have  been  worth  your  thanks,  Colonel.  I  have 
certainly  never  had  a  patient  for  whom  I  have  had 
kinder  feelings,  and  it  hurt  me  that  you  should 
think  that  I  had  gone  beyond  my  duty,  for  surreptitious 
gain." 

"I  meant  no  offense,  Doctor,"  said  Geoffrey,  humbly. 

"I  believe  you,  Colonel,"  he  ans\yered.  "You  only 
miscalculated  for  the  latitude.  That  was  all.  You 
thought  because  I  was  born  north  of  Mason  and  Dixon's 
I  was  essentially  mercenary,  and  could  know  no  other 
motive.  Never  mind  about  denying.  You  cannot  do 
so  truthfully,  and  are  too  candid  to  distort  the  fact 
without  embarrassment.  Good  by,  now ;  the  horse 
is  ready.  If  you  should  ever  have  a  relapse,  which  I 
think  unlikely,  I  shall  be  glad  to  serve  you.  Keep 
out  of  trouble,  excitement,  and  hard  work  as  long  as 
you  can.  If  the  world  gets  headed  wrong,  let  it  go. 
You  can  't  stop  it,  and  will  only  get  crushed  yourself 
if  you  try.     Good  by,  again." 

And  with  a  hearty  handshake  the  doctor  and  pa- 
tient parted  to  go  their  various  ways — each  with  added 
respect  and  kindness  for  the  other. 

When  Geoffrey  reached  his  hotel,  he  found  there  a 
letter  from  an  old  comrade-in-arms,  who,  at  the  close  of 
our  hostilities,  had  taken  service  in  Mexico.  It  was  a 
letter  of  condolence,  for  the  writer  was  not  aware  of  his 
friend's  recovery,  and,  with  the  thoughtlessness  which 
sometimes  marks  letters  of  this  character,  it  was  chiefly 
filled  with  lamentation  for  what  might  have  been  but 
for  Geoffrey's  misfortune.  He  painted  in  glowing  colors 
the  advantages  of  the  service  in  which  he  was  engaged, 


KNIGHT  ERRANT.  407 

not  the  least  of  which  was  the  absence  of  that  banner 
which  had  lately  flaunted  in  the  face  of  their  brave 
legions  in  gaudy  triumph. 

Geoffrey  determined  to  answer  the  letter  in  person. 
The  doctor  had  recommended  travel  and  absence 
from  familiar  and  exciting  associations.  Here  was 
an  opportunity,  as  it  seemed  providentially  thrown  in 
his  way,  to  comply  with  his  counsel.  His  mind  was 
made  up  instantly. 

Then,  with  strange  inconsistence,  his  thought  recur- 
red to  Toinette.  She  had  been  a  faithful  creature. 
There  was  no  denying  that.  He  had  treated  her  badly, 
too,  especially  after  what  she  had  done  for  him.  He 
was  sorry.  He  would  go  and  tell  her  so  before  he 
went  away,  perhaps  never  to  return  to  his  native  land. 

So  he  bought  a  ticket  next  morning  for  Oberlin,  and, 
on  arriving  there,  went  straight  to  the  little  cottage 
which  he  had  bought  for  his  freedwoman  five  years 
before. 

It  was  occupied  by  strangers.  He  could  only  learn 
that  some  weeks  before  she  had  sold  the  property  and 
departed.  The  present  occupants  knew  nothing  of  her 
destination. 

It  was  strange  that  his  impulses  should  be  thus 
baffled.  He  walked  about  the  aimless  streets  of  this 
abnormally-minded  little  village,  this  pretty  den  of 
venomous  fanatics,  and  pondered  the  odd  circum- 
stance. 

When  he  went  with  the  self-complacent  hauteur  of 
the  lordly  Southerner,  to  pay  off  and  recompense  the 
priceless   services    and    inestimable    kindnesses   of   the 


408  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

Yankee  surgeon,  never  doubting  that  a  sufficiency  of 
pelf  would  more  than  satisfy  the  greed  of  one  who  had 
inherited,  as  he  conceived,  only  mercenary  proclivities, 
he  was  met  with  a  sturdy  rebuff,  which  had  brought  a 
flush  of  shame  to  his  own  face,  and  made  his  thanks, 
when  finally  tendered,  seem  cold  and  beggarly.  He  felt 
annoyed  by  it.  Either  he  had  quite  mistaken  the  rest 
of  the  world  or  himself. 

And  now  his  former  slave-woman,  after  putting  him 
under  obligations  of  the  most  exalted  character,  after 
displaying  the  most  wonderful  devotion,  never  remitting 
in  her  tenderness  even  after  his  unjustifiable  harsh-, 
ness,  had  fled  from  him — fled  from  his  very  gratitude  as 
if  it  had  been  a  pestilence — and  left  him  her  debtor 
with  no  power  to  release  himself  from  the  claim. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  fates  pursued  him  with  a  grim 
mockery  of  his  antipathies.  Was  he  to  be  forever  be- 
holden to  those  whom  he  had  hated  most  bitterly? 
Was  his  intense  Southern  pride  to  be  thus  baffled  and 
humbled,  first  by  the  man  who,  of  all  living  mortals,  he 
had  regarded  with  the  most  disgust  and  hate — the  dead 
Lincoln — then  by  the  blue-coated  surgeon,  and  finally 
by  his  former  slave }  To  each  he  owed  an  incalculable 
debt,  which  he  could  never  discharge.  Each  seemed 
to  hold  a  lien  upon  his  life.  How  could  he  ever  hate 
these  natural  enemies  of  himself  and  his  class  as  he 
should,  when  the  very  light  that  flooded  his  eyes  was  a 
living  witness  of  their  charity  ?  These  indissoluble 
obligations  vexed  him.  He  would  cancel  them  by  fly- 
ing from  them. 

A  hasty  visit  to  Perham  confirmed  him  in  this  res- 


KNIGHT  ERRANT.  409 

At. 

olution.  The  Hunter  Home  was  desolate.  During  the 
war  his  aunt  and  one  of  his  sisters  had  died.  The  other 
had  married  and  removed  to  the  home  of  her  husband, 
who  was  striving  to  conquer  another  fortune  from  the 
virgin  soil  of  the  South-west  in  lieu  of  that  which  the 
collapse  of  the  Confederacy  had  swallowed  up. 

Not  less  desolate  than  the  old  mansion  was  ihe 
entire  aspect  of  the  country  round  about.  Everything 
had  changed.  A  blight  was  upon  every  form  of  life. 
Only  the  skeleton  of  the  past  remained,  and  even  that 
sadly  shattered  and  disjointed.  The  present  seemed 
at  outs  with  all  that  had  gone  before.  In  the  expressive 
language  of  the  times,  "the  bottom  rail  was  on  top.'' 
Society  was  overturned  and  prosperity  uprooted.  The 
future  presented  only  the  impenetrable  blackness  of 
despair. 

Filled  with  such  sentiments  and  apprehensions, 
Geoffrey  Hunter  left  his  affairs  in  the  hands  of  the 
agent  by  whom  they  had  been  long  and  successfully 
administered,  and  himself  became  one  of  that  band  of 
self-expatriated  exiles  who,  soon  after  the  war,  flaunted 
the  willow  of  the  "  Lost  Cause  "  upon  foreign  soil,  and 
consoled  themselves  for  the  loss  of  what  they  deemed 
their  rights,  by  taking  service  under  a  despot — reveng- 
ing themselves  upon  the  nation  which  had  but  just  put 
down  a  rebellion,  by  undertaking  a  like  enterprise  for 
a  government  whose  existence  was  a  mere  accident. 
While  claiming  to  be  chevaliers  sa7is  reproche^  they  be- 
came, in  fact,  soldiers  of  fortune,  bartering  for  gold  the 
swords  they  had  consecrated  with  such  high  resolves 
and  solemn  vows.  • 

25 


410  ^  ROYAL   GENTLEMAN, 

As  the  bronzed  and  bearded  veteran  drove  through 
the  streets  of  Perham,  conscious  of  skill  and  power,  on 
the  way  to  his  new  field  of.  action,  he  remembered  that 
day  of  early  summer  when  he  had  marched  along  that 
same  street  at  the  head  of  a  band  of  heroes,  enwreathed 
as  a  victor  and  applauded  to  the  echo.  Now  there  was 
no  wreath  on  his  brow.  Was  it  because  he  represented 
no  high  principle  or  worthy  sentiment.-*  Could  it  be 
that  he  was  mercenary }     The  thought  chafed  "him. 


CHAPTER    XLI. 

THE    RESCUE, 

GEOFFREY  HUNTER  was  doomed  to  disappoint- 
ment in  his  new  adventure.  The  role  of  a  Free 
Lance  did  not  comport  with  his  nature.  Besides,  he 
soon  found  that  the  advantages,  so  glowingly  pictured 
by  his  friend,  were  far  more  roseate  when  viewed  from 
a  distance  than  they  seemed  on  close  approach.  The 
skies  were  no  brighter,  the  air  no  purer,  nor  was  the 
comparison  between  the  people  he  had  left — even  after 
emancipation  had  become  an  accomplished  fact — and 
the  mongrel,  incoherent,  half-savage  masses  with  which 
this  tropical  land  of  refuge  abounded  to  be  made  in 
any  manner  to  the  depreciation  of  the  former.  If  there 
was  little  hope  for  what  these  fastidious  patriots  fondly 
termed  their  "country,"  there  was  infinitely  less  for  that 
which  they  had  adopted. 

Besides,  there  was  not  that  swift  decay,  that  utter 
disintegration  and  destruction  of  the  Government  of 
the  Union  after  the  war,  which  they  had  so  confidently 
expected  and  so  vehemently  predicted.  The  nation 
seemed  a  little  staggered  in  its  career  of  progress  by 
the  terrific  shock  of  battle,  but  there  was  no  weakness, 
no  indecision  of  purpose.  It  was  the  quiet  of  repose. 
The  stillness  of  the  giant  of  the  herd  while  he  is 
gathering   his    strength  for  a  fresh  onset. 


412  A  J? OVAL  gentleman: 

These  over-zealous  apostles  of  the  Lost  Cause  were 
greatly  amazed  that  the  governmental  structure  of  the 
nation  did  not  crumble  and  fall  as  one  by  one  they 
shook  off  the  dust  of  their  feet  as  a  testimony  against 
it,  and  were  not  a  litde  disappointed  at  the  result. 
They  did  not  take  into  account  the  fact  that  the 
noblest  spirits,  the  leading  minds  of  the  cause  of 
which  they  claimed  to  be  the  only  faithful  adherents 
in  defeat,  had  remained  at  home,  following  the  lead  of 
that  Christian  soldier,  the  illustrious  Lee,  whose  name 
no  American  can  trace  without  pride,  and  whose  glory 
would  alone  redeem  the  iniquity  of  the  war  if  self- 
sacrifice  and  unswerving  devotion  could  obliterate  the 
stain  of  a  causeless  conflict.  These  good  men,  as  true 
to  themselves  as  they  had  been  to  the  Confederacy, 
did  not  count  the  nation  lost  because  their  cause 
had  not  jorospered  in  its  results,  but  felt  it  their  duty 
to  remain  and  give  what  aid  they  might  in  building  up 
the  places  which  war  had  made  desolate,  and  aiding 
the  people  who  had  so  faithfully  followed  their  lead 
in  the  terrible  struggle  through  which  they  had  passed. 

God  bless  these  noble  men,  their  names  and  memo- 
ries, greater  in  defeat  than  they  could  possibly  have 
been  in  victory,  whose  patriotism  and  devotion  were 
proof  against  the  corrupting  influence  of  humiliation 
and  misfortune  ! 

One  by  one,  in  a  few  short  months,  these  Hannibals 
of  the  rebellion,  who  had  sworn  eternal  hatred  to  the 
Yankee,  and  to  whom  the  "  Stars  and  Stripes  "  were  so 
offensive  that  they  chose  to  wear  the  badge  of  despot- 
ism rather  than  dwell  under  their  shadow,  came  dropping 


THE  RESCUE.  413 

quietly  back  to  the  seats  which  had  known  them  before. 
Among  these  patriots  who  early  repented  his  excessive 
zeal  was  Geoffrey  Hunter,  and  on  the  following  Spring, 
before  the  white-oak  leaves  were  as  large  as  squirrels' 
ears,  or  the  falling  blossoms  of  the  dogwood  indicated 
the  proper  season  for  planting,  he  was  wandering  about 
his  paternal  mansion  and  broad  plantations,  moody,  dis- 
contented, and  unsatisfied. 

In  one  of  his  desultory  rambles  along  the  river  which 
found  its  way  through  the  bottom-lands  of  Cold  Spring, 
Geoffrey  Hunter  was  startled  by  a  cry  for  help.  Rush- 
ing in  the  direction  of  the  voice,  he  came  out  upon  the 
bank  of  the  river  at  a  point  where  it  turned  suddenly 
from  its  course  and  swept  over  a  half-submerged  granite 
ledge.  Upon  the  point  of  one  of  these  rocks,  in  the 
very  midst  of  the  rushing  waters,  stood  a  boy  of  six  or 
seven  ;  fair  as  a  lily,  with  long,  golden,  ringleted  hair, 
which  was  blowing  about  in  the  Spring  sunlight  while  he 
swung  his  blue-banded  sailor-hat  and  shouted  in  delight 
at  the  wild  turbulence  of  the  mad  stream,  which  seemed 
to  be  gloating  in  anticipation  over  its  fair  prey.  He 
had  gone  from  rock  to  rock  along  the  ledge,  sometimes 
stepping  from  one  to  another,  sometimes  running  along 
the  timbers  of  a  fish-trap  which  had  once  spanned  the 
stream  at  this  point,  and  at  others  walking  upon  pieces 
of  drift-wood  which  had  lodged  against  the  jutting 
rocks.  Along  one  of  these  he  had  passed  to  the  rock 
where  he  now  stood.  His  weight,  though  light,  had 
loosened  the  log  and  it  had  floated  off,  leaving  him 
upon  the  rock  unconscious  of  danger.  His  nurse,  a 
colored  girl  of  twelve  or  fourteen,  unable  to  go  to  him, 


414  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

was  running  up  and  down  the  bank  uttering  frantic 
shrieks  for  help.  Just  as  Geoffrey  came  up,  the  boy, 
attracted  by  these  cries,  turned  round  and  saw  himself 
isolated  from  the  bank  as  has  been  described,  and  in- 
stinctively starting  back,  his  foot  slipped,  and  in  an  in- 
stant the  little  sailor-hat,  floating  away  upon  the  foam- 
ing waters  of  the  cascade,  was  all  that  could  be  seen 
of  the  brave  young  boy. 

Geoffrey  Hunter  did  not  hesitate  an  instant.  The 
fierce  impetuosity  which  carried  him,  sword  in  hand, 
over  the  walls  of  Steadman,  while  his  men  were  yet 
far  behind,  was  not  dead.  In  a  moment,  gun  and 
game-bag  were  thrown  aside,  his  boots  off,  and  he  was 
running  from  rock  to  rock,  towards  the  point  where 
the  child  disappeared.  The  waters  raged  about  him 
exultingly,  as  a  new  victim,  rushing  into  their  insatiate 
grasp.  They  dinned  their  fierce  greediness  into  his 
ears,  as  he  stood  a  second,  watching  for  some  indica- 
tions of  the  child's  whereabouts.  Then  they  flung  up 
a  tiny  hand  for  an  instant  to  decoy  him  into  their 
grasp,  then  whirled  their  victim  farther  away.  He 
smiled  with  grim  joy  at  the  danger  that  offered,  and 
answered  the  challenge  of  the  waves  by  a  long,  low 
leap,  stretching  himself  along  the  water  towards  the 
point  where  the  child  had  disappeared.  The  sweep- 
ing current  caught  his  limbs,  and  drew  them  under 
him,  dashed  him  out  of  his  course,  and  would 
have  hurled  him  broadside  upon  a  sharp  spur  of  the 
rock,  but  his  eye  was  too  keen,  and  his  arm  too  quick 

and    strong.     He    was  borne   around    the  jutting    rock, 
into    the   eddy    where    the    child    had    last    been     seen. 


h 


THE    RESCUE. 

"  G««  and  game-bag  were  thrown  aside,  his  boots  off,  and  he  was  running  front 

rock  to  rock,,  toward  the  point  where  the  child  disappearedy — p.  414, 


THE  RESCUE.  415 

The  foaming  waters  hide  the  bottom.  Their  cease- 
less thunder  dins  in  his  ears  terribly.  The  spray  is 
in  his  eyes.  He  can  see  no  trace  of  the  child.  What 
shall  he  do  1  Has  the  boy  been  carried  out  of  the  eddy 
beyond  the  next  shoal }  Or  has  he  sunk  there .''  He 
can  see  nothing  to  guide  him.  He  swims  round  and 
round  like  a  disappointed  retriever,  seeking  for  sunken 
prey.  All  at  once  he  feels  a  silken  mesh  about  his 
hand.  Have  the  water-sprites  cast  a  net  about  him  1 
He  clasps  it  firmly,  and  raises  his  hand  quickly  to  the 
surface,  bringing  with  it  the  dripping,  blanched  face 
of  the  boy.  Then  he  shouts  with  delight.  But  the 
struggle  is  yet  to  come.  The  mad  waters  are  not  to 
be  cheated  of  their  prey  thus  easily,  and  fling  him 
roughly  back  when  he  seeks  to  leave  the  eddy  for  the 
shore.  Then  he  gathers  the  strong  nankeen  jacket  of 
the  boy  in  his  teeth,  throws  one  of  the  limp  arms  over 
his  neck,  and  with  his  burden  thus  on  his  shoulder,  and 
the  strong  arms  free  to  battle  with  the  currents,  he 
strikes  out  for  the  shore.  The  struggle  is  a  hard  one, 
but  the  sturdy  swimmer  triumphs,  and  brings  the  boy 
in  safety  to  the  bank. 

He  loses  not  a  moment,  but  begins  to  strip  the 
clinging  garments  from  the  flaccid  form  which  he  lays 
upon  the  grass,  in  the  warm  sunshine,  wrapped  in  the 
coat  which  he  had  himself  thrown  off,  and  begins  press- 
ing the  chest,  and  raising  and  lowering  the  arms,  to  in- 
duce respiration.  He  hushes  the  clamor  of  the  nurse 
with  harsh  words,  and,  quickening  her  memory  with  a 
blow,  bids  her  run  for  whiskey  and  blankets. 

"  Remember,"    he    shouts,    as    she    flies    from    him, 


416  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAM, 

"blankets  and  whiskey,  or  I'll  throw  you  in  where  he 
came  from." 

Then  an  idea  strikes  him.  There  is  a  bed  of  soft, 
gray  sand,  just  above  the  shoal,  which  the  river  has 
thrown  upon  the  bank  in  high  water.  It  must  be  heated 
now  by  the  warm  rays  of  the  Spring  sun.  If  the  boy 
were  in  that  his  limbs  would  soon  lose  their  chill.  He 
picks  him  up  and  runs.  His  knees  are  w^eak  and  trem- 
bling, from  his  struggle  with  the  river.  The  water  rings 
in  his  ears,  and  his  head  spins  with  excitement  and 
fatigue.  But  he  pushes  on.  He  stumbles  over  logs  and 
rocks.  His  feet  and  legs  are  bruised  by  frequent  falls. 
Once  his  head  is  cut.  The  brambles  tear  him,  and  the 
bushes  cling  about  him,  but,  at  length,  he  reaches  the 
bed  of  sand.  He  lays  the  boy  down,  and  with  his  hands 
scoops  out  a  bed  in  the  warm  mass.  Then  he  unwraps 
the  coat  and  lays  the  white  form  upon  the  gray,  glittering 
sand,  in  the  place  which  he  has  made  for  him,  and  heaps 
the  hot  particles  about  it.  The  naked  form  is  covered 
deep  in  an  instant,  all  but  the  chest  and  head.  He  folds 
the  coat  and  lays  it  under  the  boy's  head,  and  begins 
again  his  labor  of  coaxing  life  back  into  the  little  form. 

He  thought  vaguely  how  some  mother's  heart  would 
bleed  should  the  brave  boy  never  breathe  again,  and 
labored  with  redoubled  energy,  watching  for  some  signs 
of  success.  These  came  at  length — first,  a  soft,  low  sigh> 
so  low  that  he  almost  thought  it  but  imagination,  then 
another  and  another;  then  beads  of  sweat  upon  the 
brow,  before  so  pallid  and  clammy ;  then  a  slight  flush 
of  the  fair  cheek,  and  finally  the  eyes  opened  and  gazed 
at  him  unconsciouslv.     He  was  saved. 


THE  RESCUE.  417 

At  this  moment  voices  came  to  his  ears — a  mother's 
voice,  shrieking,  "My  boy!  my  boy!" 

Geoffrey  was  weak  and  trembling  with  his  exertions, 
but  he  answered  the  hail,  hoarsely  and  with  difficulty, 
"Here!     Here!" 

The  sun  seemed  swimming  in  space,  and  burning 
his  very  brain.  He  thought  that  a  woman  came  rushing 
along  the  bank  and  snatched  the  child  to  her  bosom. 
She  was  young  and  beautiful,  though  tearful  and  pallid, 
panting  with  fatigue  and  fright. 

He  thought.  No — he  wasn't  sure — yes — it  was  Toi- 
nette  I 

Then  his  brain  reeled,  and  the  darkness  which  had 
settled  down  upon  him  at  Steadman,  seemed  about  to 
throw  over  him  again  its  horrible  pall.  He  looked  up 
and  saw  Betty  Certain  standing  before  him  administer- 
ing to  himself  one  of  the  remedies  which  he  had  sent 
for  to  resuscitate  the  boy.  It  was  a  strange  group 
which  stood  around  the  child  he  had  saved,  and  the 
mind  of  Geoffrey  could  think  only  of  the  changes  which 
time  had  wrought,  as  he  was  driven  home  that  balmy 
evening,  with  the  thanks  of  the  young  mother  ringing  in 
his  ears,  along  the  very  road  by  which  he  had  brought 
his  pet  chattel  a  few  years  before,  to  Lovett  Lodge. 


CHAPTER   XLTT. 

INHEROWNRIGHT. 

IMMEDIATELY  upon  the  recovery  of  Geoffrey  Hun- 
ter at  Washington,  Toinette  had  returned  to  Oberlin, 
and  soon  after  disposed  of  her  little  property  there,  in 
order  that  she  might  comply  with  the  repeated  requests 
of  Betty  Certain  that  she  should  return  and  enjoy  that 
which  she  was  entitled  to  receive  under  her  father's 
will. 

Her  head  was  full  of  strange,  wild  notions  of  the 
future.  The  dissipation  of  one  dream  did  not  destroy 
all  of  her  hallucinations.  She  had  once  been  the  actual 
mistress  of  Lovett  Lodge,  and  she  now  longed  to  be  the 
acknowledged  head  of  the  establishment.  Her  rela- 
tions with  the  subject  race  had  been  so  slight  in  reality, 
that  she  could  be  pardoned  for  half-overlooking  their 
influence  upon  her  destiny,  in  estimating  the  future. 
Yet,  through  all  her  dreams  would  come  that  ominous 
"Toinette!  Toinette!"  of  the  hospital. 

With  a  strange  medley  in  her  mind,  therefore,  she 
went  back  to  Lovett  Lodge.  It  was  her  home.  Her 
heart  had  clung  about  it  ever  since  her  eyes  had  missed 
the  shadow  of  its  majestic  oaks,  and  she  had  gone  away 
to  live  among  strangers.  More  than  anything  else  her 
kinship  to  the  enslaved  race  was  manifested  in  her 
strangely   intense    attachment    to    locality.      Her   little 


IN  HER  0  WN  RIGHT.  419 

cottage  at  the  North  had  never  been  her  home.  It  was 
only  a  temporary  abode  to  her.  She  always  looked 
back  to  the  loosely-built,  rambUng  Lodge,  as  her  ideal 
of  a  home. 

To  this  place  so  eventful  in  her  life  she  now  re- 
turned, and  soon  became  thoroughly  domesticated  in 
her  old  haunts.  She  did  not  inform  her  friends  and 
neighbors  where  she  intended  to  go,  because  she  had  a 
sort  of  instinct  that  it  was  not  well  that  she  should 
carry  with  her,  into  her  new  life,  too  much  of  the  old. 

Old  Maggie  and  many  of  those  who  had  been  her 
fellow-servants  had  been  emancipated  by  decree  of  the 
King  of  Kings  before  the  Liberator  had  signed  that 
proclamation  which  was  to  be  an  estoppel  of  record 
against  the  claims  of  every  American  citizen  who  sought 
to  hold  property  in  man. 

Owing  also  to  the  general  removal  of  the  freedmen 
at  the  close  of  the  war,  but  few  were  left  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Lovett's  who  could  have  recognized  Toi- 
nette  as  a  former  inmate  of  the  Lodge.  The  chances 
of  recognition  were  greatly  lessened  also,  by  the  se- 
cluded life  which  she  had  led  as  Geoffrey  Hunter's 
favorite,  and  the  fact  that,  although  a  slave,  she  had 
never  associated  much  with  the  servants,  and  was  only 
known  to  those  who  waited  about  the  Lodge. 

When,  therefore,  the  well-dressed,  refined,  and  at- 
tractive Mrs.  Hunter,  with  her  beautiful  boy,  came  the 
Summer  after  the  surrender  and  took  up  her  residence 
at  the  Lodge,  whose  occupant,  Mrs.  Betty  Certain, 
greeted  her  as  an  old  acquaintance,  no  questions  were 
asked  in  regard  to  her. 


4-20  A  JiOYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

The  war  and  its  results  had  made  strange  bed- 
fellows, and  it  was  generally  assumed  that  Mrs.  Hunter 
was  a  lady  much  above  Betty  Certain's  rank  in  life,  but 
not  so  well  supplied  with  the  essentials  of  comfortable 
living  as  the  executrix  of  the  last  will  and  testament  of 
Arthur  Lovett.  In  short,  that  she  was  the  relict  of 
some  brave  man  whom  the  war  had  swallowed  up — a 
widow  in  decayed  circumstances.  Her  generally  som- 
ber attire  strengthened  this  opinion,  and  the  only  re- 
mark occasioned  by  her  presence,  was  that  excited  by 
her  beauty.  So,  she  had  since  dwelt  quietly  at  the 
Lodge  with  her  old  friend. 

Upon  Betty  Certain  the  effect  of  her  presence  was 
remarkable.  There  seemed  to  be  a  constant  struggle 
going  on  in  her  mind  as  to  the  proper  demeanor  to  be 
adopted  towards  the  new  inmate  of  the  house  she  had 
occupied  alone  for  five  years.  When  they  had  lived 
there  before,  Toinette  had  actually  been  its  mistress,  al- 
though a  slave,  and  it  was  but  natural  that  she  should 
now  assume  the  privileges  and  familiarities  to  which  she 
had  then  been  accustomed.  To  the  poor  white  woman 
this  was  not  so  easy.  She  could  not  forget  that  the 
woman  who  was  her  guest  had  been  a  slave,  and  was 
supposed  to  have  in  her  veins  a  stain  of  African  blood 
— remote  and  obscure,  it  was  true — but  by  presumption 
of  law  and  of  birth,  still  there.  She  had  a  strange  fond- 
ness for  Toinette — who  was  wonderfully  like  Arthur 
Lovett  in  form  and  feature,  and  in  many  of  her  inteU 
lectual  characteristics.  While  she  remained  a  slave-girl 
there  could  be  no  mistake  m  regard  to  their  relations, 
and  she  had  not  scrux)led   to  exhibit   this   fondness  to- 


IN  HER  0  WN  RIGHT,  421 

wards  her.  Then,  too,  she  herself  was  only  Betty  Cer- 
tain, living  on  the  old  Certain  tract ;  not  having  arrived 
at  that  dignity  and  importance  in  the  neighborhood 
which  had  resulted  from  the  control  of  the  Lovett 
estate  in  her  capacity  of  executrix,  and,  as  everybody 
supposed,  sole  heir  of  the  same.     Now  it  was  different. 

She  had  been  taught  to  consider  slavery  as  a  wrong. 
"  Granther  Ezra  "  had  so  esteemed  it,  and  had  refused 
to  contaminate  his  soul  with  the  touch  of  the  "  unclean 
thing,"  and  had  enjoined  this  doctrine,  like  the  com- 
mandment of  "  Jonadab,  the  son  of  Rechab,"  upon  "his 
sons,  their  wives,  and  their  children,  forever."  Arthur 
Lovett  thought  slavery  wrong,  yet  practiced  it,  and 
suffered  by  its  scath.  So  Betty  Certain  had  no  love  for 
slavery,  and  was  glad  it  was  destroyed.  But  then,  she  had 
no  love  for  the  enslaved  race  either.  She  was  no  more 
in  favor  of  their  farther  advancement  than  the  proudest 
aristocrat  of  the  old  slave  regime.  She  had  been  poor ; 
her  family  was  poor  as  far  back  as  she  knew  it ;  but 
she  was  white,,  and  was  proud  of  the  fact — perhaps 
prouder  than  otherwise  she  would  have  been,  because, 
she  nad  little  other  ground  for  vanity.  She  could  not 
forget  this  and  associate  with  any  one  having  a  soup^on 
of  the  unfortunate  blood  in  their  veins,  upon  terms  ap- 
proaching to  equality,  without  some  qualms  of  pride,  if 
not  of  conscience. 

Therefore  it  was,  that  while  the  "poor  white  "  woman 
really  loved  her  whom  she  had  nursed  and  petted  as  a 
slave  girl  without  thought  of  degradation  or  contami- 
nation resulting  therefrom,  she  found  it  necessary,  as 
she  thought,  to  maintain  a  certain  distance  and  reserve 


422  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

towards  the  elegant  and  refined  creature  into  which  time 
and  fortune  had  transformed  her,  lest  she  should  lower 
herself  by  a  recognition  of  the  social  equality  of  one 
even  infinitesimally  akin  to  the  inferior  race. 

Toinette  having  unconsciously  arrogated  to  herself 
the  first  place  in  the  household,  Betty  Certain  could  only 
maintain  the  distance  she  deemed  essential  to  her  dig- 
nity as  a  person  of  unmixed  Caucasian  descent  by  resum- 
ing the  inferior  one  she  had  formerly  held.  So  that  any 
one  who  had  casually  observed  the  menage  at  the  Lodge 
would  have  taken  Toinette  for  the  luxuriously-inclined 
and  somewhat  careless  mistress,  and  Betty  Certain  for 
the  exceedingly  faithful  housekeeper  and  manager,  who 
took  all  care  from  her  shoulders. 

This  delicate  "  distinction  in  regard  to  race,  color, 
and  previous  condition,"  in  the  mind  of  the  poor  white 
woman,  did  not  seem  to  extend  to  the  boy  "  Geoffrey." 
Indeed,  it  appeared  to  be  somewhat  regretfully  enter- 
tained— as  a  matter  of  duty  only — towards  the  mother. 
Whether  it  was  the  additional  strain  of  Anglo-Saxon, 
.the  increased  remoteness  of  the  typical  Ethiopian,  the 
difference  of  sex,  the  tender  years,  or  the  irresistible 
winsomeness  of  the  boy  himself,  certain  it  was  that  he 
walked  into  the  heart  of  the  childless  woman,  and  set  up 
a  kingdom  there  over  which  he  was  the  undisputed 
autocrat.  The  wealth  of  love  which  Betty  Certain  could 
not  display  towards  Toinette  because  of  the  inherent 
ineradicable  antagonism  of  race,  she  lavished  more 
abundantly  upon  her  child.  It  may  have  been  illogical, 
but  it  was  natural.  Even  the  subtle  instincts  of  the  poor 
white  could  not  trace  in  that  blue-eyed,  sunny-haired 


IN  HER  0  WN  RIGHT.  423 

young  Adonis,  who  so  strangely  mingled  the  traits  of 
Geoffrey  Hunter  and  Arthur  Lovett,  any  hint  upon  which 
this  unconquerable  and  inscrutable  aversion  could  be 
based.  So  she  assumed  the  responsibilities  of  aunthood 
toward  him  without  scruple,  and  cutdid  the  young 
mother  in  loving  obedience  to  the  imperious  little 
tyrant. 


CHAPTER  XLIIL 

AS    OF    OLD. 

IF  Geoffrey  Hunter  came  frequently  to  Lovett  Lodge 
during  the  illness  of  the  child  whom  he  had  saved, 
his  visits  were  accounted  those  of  condolence  and  sym- 
pathy. 

He  could  not  have  avoided  being  interested  in  the 
little  life  which  hung  trembling  in  the  balance  for  many 
days,  even  if  he  had  not  been  aware  that  this  fluttering 
soul  was  but  an  offshoot  of  his  own  existence.  He  had, 
too,  somewhat  of  the  pride  of  paternity,  which  led  him 
to  regard  this  brave,  beautiful  boy  with  actual  solicitude. 
He  recognized  the  dauntless  spirit  which  had  led  him 
on  from  rock  to  rock,  amid  the  mad  rush  of  the  wild 
rapid,  as  akin  to  the  reckless  daring  of  his  own  nature. 
As  the  child  grew  better,  and  he  sasv  more  of  his  pecu- 
liarities, he  could  not  but  recognize  himself — his  way 
and  manner,  in  a  thousand  trifles,  by  others  unnoticed. 
The  boy's  mind  was  an  open  volume  to  him,  which  he 
read  with  ease  by  the  light  of  his  own  memory  and  in- 
stinct. It  was  a  delightful  study,  which,  by  its  very 
novelty,  blotted  from  his  mind,  for  the  time  being,  the 
peculiar  relations  of  the  child  and  the  mother  to  him- 
self. It  amused  him  to  note  how  familiar  the  boy's 
mental  lineaments  seemed  to  his  own  consciousness. 
The    boy's    development    was    an    open   book  of  ever- 


AS  OF  OLD,  425 

increasing  interest  to  the  watcher,  to  whom,  in  a  double 
sense,  he  owed  his  life,  who  recognized  each  movement, 
attitude,  and  gesture  as  his  own,  and  seemed  instinctive- 
ly able  to  divine  what  he  would  do  or  say  under  any 
given  circumstances. 

Every  day  he  called  to  inquire  as  to  the  boy's  re- 
covery, and  long  before  it  was  completed  had  become  a 
familiar  visitant  at  his  bed-side.  Instinctively  the  boy 
seemed  attracted  to  his  new  friend.  Utterly  unconscious 
of  the  relation  which  subsisted  between  them,  he  still 
seemed  to  recognize  a  kindred  nature.  He  looked  for 
Geoffrey's  coming  anxiously,  and  was  fretful  and  uneasy 
if  it  was  delayed  after  the  usual  hour. 

Absorbed  in  the  danger  which  threatened  her  child, 
Toinette  had  hardly  time  to  observe  who  it  was  that 
brought  him  to  her  arms.  During  the  sorrowful  days 
that  followed  her  solicitude  was  so  great  that  she  scarcely 
noticed  the  presence  of  Geoffrey  at  the  Lodge,  All 
thought  of  their  previous  relations  was  blotted  from 
her  mind.  She  had  no  time  to  think  of  anything  except 
her  darling  boy.  She  had  dreamed  so  often,  too,  of  a 
glad  time  to  come  when  her  boy's  .^'<xther  should  ac^ 
knowledge  the  relationship,  and  should  share  with  her 
the  joys  and  sorrows  of  parentage,  that  it  hardly  seemed 
strange  to  see  him  sitting  by  the  bedside  and  soothing 
the  little  sufferer.  Why  should  he  not !  It  was  his  boy 
as  well  as  hers.  She  was  almost  glad  in  this  hour, 
when  the  death-angel  hovered  close  above  her  darling, 
that  another  heart  shared,  as  she  believed  it  did,  her 
parental  anguish. 

Dim,  fragmentary  thoughts  like  these  were    all  that 

96 


4;>G  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

she  gave  to  Geoffrey  Hunter  in  those  dark  hours,  while 
life  struggled  with  death  for  the  prize  of  that  fair  form. 
The  keen-eyed,  poor-white  woman,  Betty  Certain, 
knowing  nothing  of  the  later  relations  between  Geof- 
frey and  Toinettc,  long  accustomed  to  seeing  them  to- 
gether at  the  Lodge  and  having  unbounded  love  for 
both,  was  equally  blind  to  his  presence  and  its  possible 
consequences.  Geoffrey's  upright  conduct  in  regard  to 
the  Lovett  estate,  his  bravery  and  suffering  in  the  war, 
and,  above  all,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  his  honorable  and 
even  generous  course  toward  Toinette  herself,  had  won 
her  confidence  and  admiration  beyond  comparison  with 
all  other  men,  excepting  always  Arthur  Lovett,  of  sainted 
memory.  It  was  true  that  Geoffrey  Hunter,  having  the 
young  girl  under  his  control,  and  in  his  charge,  had 
used  the  opportunities  afforded  by  his  position  in  a 
manner  altogether  wrong  and  improper.  He  had  no 
right  to  make  his  slave-girl  the  mother  of  his  children. 
It  was  wicked.  Arthur  Lovett  had  erred  in  the  same 
way,  but  Geoffrey  had  generously  atoned  for  his  fault. 
He  had  freed  the  servant  woman  who  had  shared  his 
embraces,  and  had  thereby  discharged  his  debt,  made 
compensation  to  Toinette,  and  also  avoided  the  crime  of 
enslaving  his  own  offspring.  Betty  Certain  looked  upon 
it  in  no  harsher  light  than  this.  Tenderly  as  she  had 
always  regarded  Toinette,  she  had  never  properly  esti- 
mated her  love  for  Geoffrey.  She  had  never  realized 
that  the  all-absorbing,  self-forgetting  passion  which  dwelt 
in  her  own  heart  for  Arthur  Lovett  might  have  its 
counterpart  in  that  which  Toinette  gave  to  Geoffrey. 
She  would  have  admitted,  if  asked,  that  the  girl  loved 


AS  OF  OLD.  427 

her  former  master,  or  had  loved  him,  at  least,  but  she 
would  have  used  the  term  with  a  limited  significance.  It 
had  never  occurred  to  her  that  the  devotion  which  had 
sanctified  the  years  of  her  own  life  to  vestal  service  at 
the  shrine  of  a  holy  memory  might  also  dwell  in  the 
bosom  of  Toinette. 

Perhaps  it  is  not  strange.  There  was  something  so 
obnoxious  to  the  mutuality  of  sentiment  and  regard 
which  perfect  love  demands  in  the  relation  of  slavery, 
that  it  is  scarce  a  matter  of  wonder  that  one  knowing 
this  relation  to  exist  should  suppose  love  to  be  an  im- 
possible concomitant.  Besides,  she  had  never  done  full 
justice  to  Belle  Lovett,  who,  with  all  her  errors,  had 
loved  Arthur  vv^ith  a  wild  intensity,  as  sincere  if  not  as 
pure  as  her  own.  She  thought  she  did,  but  in  her  in- 
most heart  she  rejoiced  that  the  relation  between  them 
had  been  that  of  master  and  menial.  She  put  her  own 
devoted  attachment  on  a  higher  plane.  It  was  of  a  no- 
bler grade — a  better  rank,  somehow.  She  had  never 
been  much  disturbed  by  the  love  which  he  had  avowed 
for  his  slave,  because  she  zvas  a  slave.  She  was  a  poor 
creature.  Arthur  had  wronged  her ;  but  he  desired  to 
make  reparation,  and  would  have  done  so,  had  he  lived. 
As  his  agent  and  trustee,  she  would  do  it  yet.  That 
was  all  right,  all  proper,  and  it  was  enough.  She 
counted  the  love  of  the  slave-woman  as  something 
which  could  be  priced  and  paid  for.  It  partook  in 
her  mind  of  the  chattel  nature  of  the  giver.  Its  re- 
jection and  violation  were  the  subject  matter  of  com- 
pensation. She  would  not  justify  —  she  never  had 
justified — such  conduct  on  the  part  of  Geoffrey  or  Ar- 


428  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

thur.  It  was  wrong  for  them  to  be  the  paramours  of 
bondwomen — not  because  they  spurned  and  crushed 
the  flowers  of  love  beneath  their  feet;  but  because  the 
canons  of  decency  and  morality  were  violated.  It 
was  wrong  for  Geoffrey  Hunter  to  make  the  slave-girl 
Toinette  the  amusement  of  his  leisure  moments,  not 
so  much  because  of  the  wrong  which  he  did  to  her, 
as  on  account  of  the  evil  which  he  wrought  to  him- 
self. 

She  had  never  contemplated  it  as  a  possibility  that 
the  girl  Toinette  could  aspire  to  love  Geoffrey  Hunter 
as  an  equal  might  have  done — that  she  should  ever 
dream  of  being  the  one  love,  the  all  in  all,  the  wife,  of 
her  master. 

As  the  boy  recovered,  his  attachment  for  his  new 
friend  gained  strength.  He  rode  with  him  almost  daily. 
Short,  careful  trips  at  first,  gradually  growing  longer 
as  his  strength  increased.  Thus  the  former  master 
became  again  a  familiar  presence  at  Lovett  Lodge. 

As  Toinette's  care  for  her  child  relaxed  with  his 
returning  health,  she  began  to  consider  the  embarrass- 
ments of  her  position  with  the  seriousness  which  they 
required.  Her  eyes  had  been  opened  as  well  as 
Geoffrey's,  though  in  a  different  sense.  She  remem- 
bered always,  with  unutterable  horror,  that  scene  in 
the  hospital,  and  felt  that  an  impassable  chasm  lay 
between  them.  She  knew  her  position  and  her  weak- 
ness, and  felt  that  she  could  neither  expose  herself  to 
the  suspicions  which  his  frequent  visits  would  soon 
engender,  nor  trust  her  own  heart  to  see  him  amid 
the  surroundings  of  their  former  intimacy.     She  owed 


AS  OJ^  OLD.  429 

It  to  herself,  her  child,  the  race  to  which  she  was 
so  strangely  allied,  and  to  the  womanhood  which  had 
sprung  to  life  in  her  heart,  to  put  an  end  to  their 
association.  How  should  this  be  done  ?  There  was 
but  one  way  to  accomplish  it  without  exposing  her- 
self to  annoyance  and  mortification.  She  must  leave 
Lovett  Lodge,  and  leave  it  for  good.  She  arrived  at 
this  conclusion  one  morning  while  her  boy  was  taking 
his  accustomed  ride  with  his  new-found  friend.  Geof- 
frey's demeanor  toward  her,  during  her  affliction,  had 
been  strictly  that  of  a  gentleman.  Neither  by  word 
nor  look  had  he  presumed  upon  their  former  relation 
His  courtesy  had  been  unobtrusive  and  unaffected. 
Instinctively  he  had  recognized  the  lady  whom  his 
comrades  in  the  hospital  had  discovered  in  Toinette. 
At  first  he  had  been  at  a  loss  for  a  convenient  term  by 
which  to  address  her.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to 
call  her  "Mrs.  Hunter."  He  felt  that  it  would  not 
do  to  address  her  as  "  Toinette,"  so  he  had  fallen  back 
on  the  indefinite  "Madame,"  which,  being  very  generally 
used  in  that  section,  was  liable  to  no  objection  on  the 
score  of  formality  or  affectation,  as  it  might  be  in  a 
Northern  community. 

Toinette  saw  and  appreciated  this  delicacy.  She 
regretted  then  for  the  first  time  that  she  had  ever  as- 
sumed the  name  of  Mrs.  Hunter,  though  in  truth  it  was 
a  fiction  which  chance  had  put  ready  made  into  her 
hands.  Geoffrey  had  taken  the  deed  for  the  little  house 
which  he  had  purchased  for  her  in  the  name  of  Antoi- 
nette Hunter,  adding  the  master's  name  to  her  slave- 
appellative,   and    Toinette's    modesty  and  propriety  of 


430  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

deportment,  together  with  her  stiidioiisness  and  the  de- 
votion she  manifested  to  her  child,  so  impressed  her 
neighbors  that  they  instinctively  termed  her  Mrs.  Hun- 
ter, without  inquiry  as  to  the  fact  of  wifehood.  The 
war  which  came  on  so  soon  after  she  had  come  among 
them,  and  the  cutting  off  of  all  communication  between 
the  North  and  South,  was  accepted  by  all  as  a  good  and 
sufficient  reason  for  the  absence  of  the  man  whom  they 
had  assumed  to  be  her  husband.  So,  without  a  suspicion 
as  to  her  origin,  they  had  accepted  her  as  free,  white, 
and  married — a  woman  to  be  pitied  because  of  the 
separation  which  the  war  had  wrought  between  herself 
and  her  husband. 

To  say  that  Toinette  did  not  encourage  this  idea, 
after  it  had  become  prevalent,  would  be  untrue.  It 
was  hardly  to  be  expected  of  poor  human  nature  that 
she  would  fail  to  put  herself  on  the  vantage-ground 
which  was  thus  laid  open  to  her  footsteps.  In  doing 
so,  however,  she  was  quite  unconscious  of  an  intent  to 
deceive,  and  only  anxious  to  secure  herself  from  re- 
mark and  aspersion  by  what  seemed  a  providential  stu- 
pidity of  the  people  among  whom  she  was  thrown. 
She  was  afraid  now  that  Geoffrey  would  attribute  its 
adoption  to  herself  and  thereby  infer  the  existence  of 
that  secret  dream  which  she  had  nourished  so  long,  and 
which  had  in  part  originated  from  the  bestowal  of  this 
title  upon  her  and  the  role  which  she  had  been  almost 
compelled,  in  consequence,  to  adopt. 

Clearly,  she  must  leave  the  Lodge,  and  at  once. 
Her  dream  was  dissipated.  Her  idol  broken.  Yet  she 
loved  Geoffrey  Hunter  as  fervently  as  ever.     In  justice 


AS  OF  OLD.  431 

to  herself  she  must  flee  his  presence,  which,  however 
loved,  could  only  contaminate. 

Toinette  did  not  for  a  moment  contemplate  delay, 
nor  underestimate  its  dangers.  She  had  laid  this  down 
as  her  rule  of  conduct,  that  if  her  life  should  ever  be 
made  known  to  her  boy,  he  should  have  no  cause  to 
blush  for  any  act  of  hers  after  she  became  free.  She 
would  keep  herself  pure  for  his  sake,  not  only  from 
evil,  but  from  its  very  appearance  and  the  possibility  of 
its  imputation. 

She  had  a  dim  idea  that  she  had  not  always  been 
mistaken  as  to  the  nature  of  the  regard  which  Geoffrey 
Hunter  had  once  entertained  for  her.  She  went  back 
over  her  life  here  at  the  Lodge;  his  fondness  for  her 
society,  his  enjoyment  of  her  presence  and  conversation, 
his  evident  regret  at  her  absence,  even  the  course  which 
he  adopted  in  her  emancipation,  convinced  her  that  his 
regard  for  her  was  something  more  than  the  mere  liking 
of  a  licentious  man  for  his  mistress.  She  believed  that 
even  yet  he  loved  her.  Perhaps  it  was  her  desire  that 
he  should — her  quenchless  love  for  him — which  led  her 
to  this  belief.  At  the  same  time  she  did  not  think  that 
he  would  ever  give  it  the  sanction  of  public  acknowl- 
edgement. She  knew  the  world  now  too  well,  and  ap- 
preciated its  prejudices  too  justly,  to  think  thai^  even 
for  a  moment.  His  attachment,  his  love,  she  believed 
to  be  sincere,  but  she  felt  that  he  would  never  manifest 
it  in  a  form  which  she  could  recognize  or  permit  without 
self-abasement  and  shame.  She  feared  that  he  might 
desire  to  renew  their  former  relations,  and  determined  to 
go  away  before  this  insult  to  her  love  should  be  offered. 


432  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

She  sat  in  the  library  of  the  Lodge,  in  the  old  arm- 
chair which  Geoffrey  had  so  often  occupied  when  he  was 
master  there,  in  which  Arthur  Lovett  sat  when  the  hand 
of  love — transformed  to  hate  by  a  series  of  strange  events 
— loosed  the  silver  cord  of  his  life. 

The  memories  of  the  past  came  over  her,  and  she 
wept  at  the  destruction  of  its  bright  visions.  She  half- 
wished  she  could  have  remained  a  slave,  uninformed  of 
the  nobler  duties  and  obligations  of  free  womanhood. 
The  love  of  Geoffrey  Hunter — she  was  sure  she  would 
have  enjoyed  that  —  would  have  compensated  her 
for  much.  If  he  had  but  remembered  his  Toinette  ! — 
how  sweet  that  name  had  sounded  upon  his  lips ! — she 
would  never  have  dreamed  of  marriage — never  would 
have  thought  it  wrong — at  least  not  seriously  wrong. 
Oh !  it  would  have  been  sweet  to  have  been  his — worth 
'■ — almost  the  pangs  and  debasements  of  slavery ! 

She  wept  as  she  thought  of  it.  Had  freedom  been 
worth  its  price  ?  What  had  she  received  by  it  1  Her- 
self, volition,  certainly;  but  with  isolation,  friendless- 
ness!  There  was  no  one  to  love  her,  hardly  a  friend 
in  whom  she  could  confide.  Just  sufficiently  con- 
nected with  the  menial  race  to  be  spurned  by  the 
dominant  one,  her  position  as  associated  with  the 
one  was  always  liable  to  suspicion  and  detection,  and 
to  identify  herself  with  the  other  was  to  step  down 
the  ladder  of  development  to  a  level  which  she  shud- 
dered to  contemplate.  She  had  risen  far  above  the 
mass  of  the  lately  subject  race.  By  education  and  cult- 
ure she  was  the  equal,  aye,  the  superior,  of  thousands 
of  the  master  race.     She  felt  this,  and  the  sting  of  her 


JS  OF  OLD.  433 

destiny  was  all  the  sharper  for  its  knowledge.  She  was 
not  a  missionary.  She  did  not  care  to  devote  herself  to 
the  elevation  of  the  freed  people.  She  loved  the  good 
things  of  life,  her  own  enjoyments,  light,  love,  music, 
pleasant  and  agreeable  surroundings.  She  was  not  wide 
in  her  views.  She  did  not  care  to  make  the  world  so 
much  better  for  her  having  lived  in  it.  She  did  not 
think  she  was  called  to  do  it,  perhaps  scarcely  thought 
of  it  at  all. 

She  was  not  strong-minded,  only  strong-hearted; 
did  not  love  everybody,  only  a  few ;  but  those  few  she 
loved  wildly,  passionately — not  because  it  was  her  duty, 
but  because  she  delighted  in  loving  them.  She  did  not 
like  hardships  or  sacrifice.  She  did  not  worship  ab- 
stract right.  The  dictates  of  her  heart  prevailed  always 
over  the  edicts  of  reason.  She  could  endure  anything, 
everything  for  one  she  loved,  and  esteem  it  a  joy,  a 
privilege,  so  to  do ;  but  she  had  no  love  for  general 
humanity  which  could  sweeten  labor  or  sacrifice  in  its 
behalf.  The  good  which  was  in  her  nature  was  con- 
crete, not  abstract.  She  loved  her  own,  herself,  her  boy, 
her  friends,  and,  above  all,  her  master,  Geoffrey  Hunter  [ 

Therefore  it  was,  that  while  she  sat  and  wept  over 
the  shattered  memories  of  the  past,  almost  regretting  the 
slave  life  she  had  lost,  when  she  heard  the  voice  of  her 
boy  returning  from  his  ride  her  regret  instantly  van- 
ished. Her  tears  were  dried  at  once.  Her  mother-love 
was  the  mystic  solvent  of  her  unworthy  doubt.  She 
would  go  away  at  once  for  his  sake.  She  would  take 
him  where  knowledge  of  his  origin  and  parentage  could 
never  come — to  the  world's  end  if  need  be.     He  should 

T 


434  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

never  know  shame.  His  proud  spirit  should  never  be 
humbled  and  broken  with  the  stigma  of  ignoble  birth. 
She  would  be  what  she  seemed — a  lady.  He  should 
never  blush  for  his  mother.  He  should  never  know  that 
the  proud  man  who  petted  him  now  was  his  father,  or 
that  the  slave  Toinette  was  his  mother.  Toinette  was 
dead  !     She  would  bury  her  ! 

It  was  in  that  instant  that  the  iron  of  slavery  en- 
tered deeper  into  her  soul  than  ever  before.  She  saw 
how  it  had  blasted  her  love  and  shriveled  her  life. 
That  terrible  "Toinette!  Toinette!"  of  the  hospital 
rang  in  her  ears  as  she  heard  the  prattling  of  her  boy 
and  the  footsteps  of  Geoffrey  ascending  the  very  stairs 
down  which  the  ghost  of  Lovett  Lodge  had  disappeared 
while  she  lay  prostrated  with  the  dagger-stroke  so  many 
years  ago.  Why  had  she  ever  risen  to  life  again  ?  She 
wished  she  had  died ! 

Hastily  wiping  away  her  tears,  she  went  to  the  library 
door  to  meet  them  as  they  stepped  upon  the  porch. 
Her  mind  was  made  up.  She  would  announce  her 
decision  without  delay.  What  must  be  done  should  be 
done  at  once. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

"get    thee    behind    me,  SATAN." 

"/^~AH,  mamma!"  said  the  boy,  running  towards  her, 
^^^  his  cheek  glowing  with  restored  health,  and  his 
eyes  radiant  with  animation  and  joy.  *'  Oh,  mamma  ! 
may  I  go  home  with  Col.  Hunter?  He  says  he  has  a 
great  big  house,  and  a  pony,  and  a  dog,  and — and  the 
dog's  name  is  Leon,  and  he  is  the  nicest  old  fellow- 
only  not  so  nice  as  another  Leon  who  died  long  ago — 
and  no  little  boy  at  all.  Please  mamma,  let  me  go. 
That's  a  dear,  pretty  mamma!"  said  the  artless  child, 
caressing  the  fair  head  that  bowed  to  kiss  his  upturned 
face. 

Geoffrey  Hunter  gazed  upon  the  pretty  picture  with 
a  strange  medley  of  emotions.  He  was  both  proud  and 
envious  of  the  bright  boy,  whose  arm  encircled  that  fair 
neck  and  who  received  those  caresses.  He  almost  for- 
got that  it  was  but  his  former  slave  girl  and  her  brat. 
His  heart  was  clamoring  for  her  love,  and  his  tongue 
burned  to  utter  the  prayer  of  affection. 

Toinette  having  hushed  the  child's  prattlings,  rose 
and  stood  holding  his  hand,  as  she  said  with  grave 
earnestness  : 

"Do  you  really  desire  it,   sir.?" 

"  Indeed  I  do,"  answered  Geoffrey,  "  and  if  you 
will  permit  him  to  go,  I  will  promise  to  take  the  best 
care  of  him  while  he   is  with  me." 


436  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN'. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  that,  sir,"  she  replied,  her  eyes 
looking  straight  into  his  with  an  unshrinking  steadiness, 
which  made  his  own  waver  before  their  calm  light,  and 
added,  with  the  same  quiet  gravity,  "  I  know  you  would ; 
yet  I  have  one  request  to  make  before  I  can  give  my 
permission." 

"  You  know  I  will  grant  any  request  you  can  make, 
madame,"  he  answered  quickly,  almost  tenderly. 

"  It    is   only  that "  she    hesitated,    and    a   slight 

blush  overspread  her  face,  but  her  gaze  did  not  lose  its 
steadiness,  nor  her  voice  its  tone  of  gentle  dignity,  as 
she  continued :  "  Only  that  you  will  promise  that  he 
shall  never  love  his  mother  less  for  granting  him  this 
favor." 

There  was  no  mistaking  her  meaning.  The  emphasis 
was  too  marked  to  be  unnoticed.  She  wished  to  seal 
his  lips  as  to  the  past.  That  past  swept  by -him  an  in- 
stant panorama,  as  his  eyes  fell  before  hers  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  raised  them  and  gazed  at  her  again,  as  she  stood 
in  his  presence.  The  past  was  dead  in  her.  The  present 
and  the  future  alone  were  written  in  her  face.  There 
was  no  shame,  no  consciousness  of  impurity  or  inferior- 
ity in  her  look.  It  was  the  unshrinking  gaze  of  a  candid 
woman,  conscious  of  what  her  son  might  some  day  re- 
gard as  a  fault,  yet  full  of  conscious  innocence  and 
purity.  There  was  neither  reproach  nor  entreaty.  Just 
the  inquiry  whether  he  would  let  the  past  remain  sealed 
to  the  child.  His  face  flushed  as  he  answered 
warmly  : 

"  You  do  not  think  I  would  do  anything  to  prevent 

it  r 


''GET  THEE  BEHIND  ME,  SATAN."  437 

Then  all  at  once  he  remembered  that  scene  in  the 
hospital.  His  eyes  fell,  and  he  added  confusedly  and 
humbly : 

"  I  beg  pardon ;  I  had  forgotten  that  you  have  reason 
to  think  ill  of  me.  You  have  my  promise.  I  had  hoped 
that  my  conduct  since  then  would  have  obliterated  that 
memory." 

His  eyes  flashed  up  at  her  a  look  of  haughty, 
passionate  reproach.  Poor  Toinette !  She  had  not 
expected  this.  She  was  not  armed  at  all  points. 
She  saw  him  in  his  magnificent  strength  and  courage 
breasting  the  rushing  stream,  reckless  of  his  own  lifej  to 
save  that  fair-haired  treasure  by  her  side.  Instinctively 
she  sank  down  by  the  boy  and  clasped  him  in  her 
arms.  A  flood  of  tears  gushed  over  his  golden  locks, 
as  with  trembling  lips  she  said : 

"  It  has,  it  has — a  thousand  times.  I  did  not  mean 
that.  You  do  not  think  I  did  V  she  asked,  as  she  raised 
her  eyes,  welling  over  with  tears,  to  his  face. 

"  No,  no,"  he  answered,  hastily,  "but  will  you  let  me 
have  the  -boy  for  a  while.''" 

"Yes,  certainly.  Run,  Geoffrey,  and  tell  nurse  to 
get  you  ready."  She  kissed  the  boy,  and  stood  before 
him  again,  self-poised  and  calm.  "  You  have  a  right  to 
ask  it,  and  there  will  be  no  opportunity  hereafter.  But 
you  must  bring  him  back  on  Monday." 

"  Why  so  soon  .''" 

"We  shall  leave  here  on  Wednesday." 

"  Leave  on  Wednesday }  Leave  the  Lodge,  do  you 
mean  .'*" 

"Yes." 


438  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

"Where  are  you  going?*' 

"I  do  not  know." 

"Do  not  know?     When  will  you  return?" 

"Never." 

His  quick  glance  half  read  her  thought.  "  You  are 
going  to  avoid  me,"  he  said.  She  turned  pale  and 
leaned  against  the  doorway  for  support,  but  did  not 
answer.  He  turned  and  strode,  with  quick,  angry  steps, 
along  the  porch.  Then  he  wheeled  suddenly,  and  came 
back. 

"  Toinette,  why  do  you  treat  me  thus  ?  You  know 
that  I  love  you,  and  am  miserable  without  you.  Have 
I  not  suffered  enough  for  one  thoughtless  act  ?  Have 
I  not  treated  you  kindly  and  tenderly  ever  since  ?  You 
do  not  love  me,  or  you  would  forget  it." 

His  voice  was  tremulous  with  emotion,  and  his  eyes 
burned  into  her  very  soul.  She  looked  into  them, 
and  saw  the  yearning  love  of  his  passionate  nature. 
Poor  Toinette,  how  her  own  heart  throbbed  responsive 
to  that  fierce  appeal!  She  knew  that  he  loved  her, 
loved  her  as  he  never  could,  or  would,  love,  any  other 
woman.  He  was  not  speaking  to  the  slave-girl.  His 
manner  was  earnest,  respectful,  tender.  It  was  the  lan- 
guage of  a  thirsty  soul,  asking  the  love  of  its  fellow,  free, 
untrammeled,  pure.  He  had  forgotten  all  else.  She  was 
all  the  world  to  him  in  that  hour  of  love's  supremest 
mastery.  "Toinette" — "Toinette!"  How  sweet  was 
that  name  now  breathed  in  the  tender,  trembling  accents 
of  his  lips.  Poor  weak  heart,  what  wonder  that  the 
world  slipped  away  from  her  view,  too.  Geoffrey — her 
idol,  her  inaster — bowed  before  her  and  sought  her  love. 


''GET  THEE  BEHIND  ME,  SATAN."  439 

Joy  flushed  her  face.  Her  color  came  and  went.  The 
glad  tears  defied  restraint.  She  uttered  a  low  cry,  half 
sob,  half  moan.  She  looked  up  at  him  and  clasped 
her  hands,  feebly  and  pleadingly.  She  trembled,  and 
would  have  fallen.  Instantly  the  strong  arms  enclosed 
her  in  their  fervid  grasp.  She  was  pillowed  on  his 
bosom,  and  his  lips  showered  kisses  upon  lips  and 
brow.  Her  dream  was  fulfilled.  Geoffrey  loved  her. 
Life  had  no  further  joy.  Yet  even  in  that  ecstatic  mo- 
ment there  came  over  her  enraptured  soul  a  dim  sense 
of  evil.  But  there  could  be  no  danger.  His  arms  were 
around  her.  She  was  at  home.  The  warm,  sweet  sun- 
shine lay  peaceful  and  quiet  upon  the  porch.  The  trees 
stood  in  the  calm  of  the  mid-summer  noon  without  a 
leaf  stirred  by  the  wind.  Nature  was  bathed  in  silence 
and  sunshine.  Her  joyous  heart  throbs  were  audible  in 
the  hush  of  that  bright  mid-day.  All  was  light  and 
love. 

"  Toinette,  Toinette,"  he  murmured  as  he  clasped 
her  yet  closer  to  his  breast.  "  You  are  mine — mine  al- 
ways— you  will  not  leave  me }  You  must  not  leave 
me !  We  will  live  here  at  the  Lodge  and  be  happy,  as 
in  the  dear  old  times." 

A  cloud  skirted  the  sunbeams.  How  quickly  the 
gloom  succeeded  the  brightness.  "  The  old  times " 
at  the  Lodge  with  Geoffrey  Hunter!  What  different 
pictures  did  those  words  bring  to  those  two  minds  of 
the  war — its  anticipations,  glories,  hopes,  triumphs  and 
reverses,  and  its  sad  and  bitter  consequences  swept  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  one.  Bondage  and  freedom,  chat- 
telism   and   self-assertion,  existence    and   non-existence 


440  A   ROYAL    GENTLEMAN. 

gleamed  in  ineffaceable  contrast  before  the  other.  Slav- 
ery and  womanhood  now  stood  before  her  in  the  future. 
She  must  at  this  juncture  elect  the  one  or  the  other — 
decide  to  be  true  to  herself  or  to  go  back  to  moral 
bondage. 

She  half  released  herself  from  his  embrace,  and 
looking  calmly  yet  eagerly  in  his  face,  repeated : 

"As  in  the  olden  time?" 

"Yes,  yes,  my  dear,  why  not?"  with  a  sudden  ques- 
tioning glance. 

"Because  the  past  can  never  be  again." 

"  True,  times  have  changed,  but  we  may  still  be 
happy  as  we  were  then." 

"Have  we  not  changed,  too?" 

"  Changed !  how  ?  I  have  not  changed  toward  you 
Toinette?" 

"Yet  we  can  never  be  to  each  other  as  we  have 
been." 

"Cannot!  why?" 

"Why?  Why?  Will  you  not  see?"  she  cried  in  des- 
peration, impetuously,  at  last.  "  Because  a  free  woman 
may  not  lend  herself  to  the  evil  which  slavery  might 
excuse." 

His  countenance  darkened  and  his  arms  loosened 
their  clasp. 

She  stood  before  him  calm,  determined,  unshrink- 
ing. 

"  So,"  he  cried,  and  Toinette  remembered  that  ter- 
rible  moment  in  the  hospital  as  she  heard  the  tone. 
"  So  you  insist  upon  '  social  equality,*  I  suppose.  You 
expect  me  to  marry  you,  perhaps?" 


''GET  THEE  BEHIND  ME,  SATAN.''  441 

It  was  a  harsh,  cruel  sneer,  but  Toinette  did  not 
flinch. 

"  I  expect  and  insist  on  nothing,  Colonel  Hunter," 
she  replied  with  dignity ;  "  but  I  will  not  sully  love  with 
sin  and  shame.  I  demand  nothing  from  others,  but  I 
must,  I  will,  respect  myself." 

"You  presume  on  my  love,"  said  he,  angrily;  "you 
think  me  so  enamoured  that  I  will  degrade  myself  and 
disgrace    my    family  openly   to   obtain   you.      You  are- 
mistaken." 

He  turned  away  and  walked  angrily  toward  the 
steps.  As  he  started  down  them  he  looked  up  and  saw 
her  gazing  after  him  with  a  sad,  tearful  look.  He  came 
back  instantly. 

"  You  did  not  mean  it,  Toinette.  Say  you  did  not 
mean  it,"  he  cried,  as  he  caught  her  clasped  hands  in 
both  his  own.  "  You  know  it  cannot  be.  You  know 
Geoffrey  Hunter  cannot  marry  one  who — who — has  been 
a  slave.  It  would  disgrace  him  and  his  family  forever. 
Besides,  the  law*  does  not  allow  it.     Our  marriage  would 


*  The  legal  presumptions  arising  out  of  a  state  of  slavery  were  somewhat 
peculiar,  and  now  that  it  no  longer  exists,  as  a  form  of  society,  are  likely  to 
be  forgotten.  Many  Indians,  as  well  as  negroes,  were  enslaved,  and  no 
doubt  some  persons  of  unmixed  white  blood  also.  The  language  of  the  old 
statutes  upon  this  subject  is  very  suggestive.  They  declare  "all  Negroes, 
Mulattos,  Indians,  Mezzotints,  and  other  slaves  who  have  been  sold  or  held 
as  such,  to  be  slaves,  they  and  their  children,  except  such  as  may  be  freed 
for  merit."  From  and  after  that  time  (about  1730)  the  condition  of  slavery 
was  heritable  in  the  female  line.  Every  child  of  a  slave  woman,  no  matter 
what  its  race  or  color,  was  a  slave  and  without  legal  remedy.  It  was  a  pre- 
sumption which  could  be  rebutted  only  by  an  act  of  manumission. 

Connected  with  this  was  another  and  very  essential  presumption,  to  wit ; 
That  the  individual  who  was  held  as  a  slave  was  presumed  to  be  such  until 
the  contrary  was  shown.  It  reversed  the  presumption  of  the  commga  law 
37 


4:4:2  ^i  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

be  a  crime,  and  if  attempted  would  be  void.  The  very- 
evil  you  seek  to  escape  would  be  enhanced  by  it.  But 
I  am  certain  you  do  not  doubt  that  I  love  you  as  well 
as  wife  ever  was  loved  on  earth." 

"Don't— don't!"  she  wailed  fitfully.  "You  would 
not  have  me  yield  to  sinful  passion  because  the  law  pro- 
hibits me  a  holy  love.''" 

"Would  you  have  me  degrade  myself  and  make  the 
Hunter  name  a  badge  of  infamy  to  obtain  your  love  .'*" 

"Would  you  degrade  not  only  ourselves  but  our  off- 
spring for  the  sake  of  the  Hunter  name  .'*  You  would 
not  expect  a  sister  to  even  listen  to  such  a  proposal." 

"  Do  be  reasonable,  Toinette,  and  lay  aside  your 
high  notions.  Wherever  did  you  get  them  from  ?  Free- 
dom does  not  make  you  white  any  more  than  Lee's  sur- 
render made  me  black.  You  are  not  a  lady,  and  need 
not  try  to  act  the  part  of  one.     The  barrier  which  na- 


and  put  the  onus  of  showing  the  fact  of  freedom  upon  the  individual  who 
claimed  to  be  unlawfully  held. 

Another  presumption  was  that  a  person  having  more  than  one-stxtecfith 
of  colored  blood  ivas  a  slave  !  It  seems  impossible,  but  such  was  the  fact. 
Reversing  this  too,  but  of  less  frequent  application,  and  less  clearly  estab- 
lished by  judicial  construction,  was  the  presumption  of  color  from  the  fact 
of  slavery.  Nothing  else  appearing,  the  fact  of  slaveiy  within  three  genera- 
tions made  the  fairest  Saxon,  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  a  "colored  person," 
This  presumption  was  carried  to  a  much  greater  extent  in  common  thought 
than  by  the  courts.  The  terms  "nigger"  and  "slave"  were  synonomous 
in  the  common  mind. 

This  is  the  manner  in  which  Geoffrey  Hunter  is  here  represented  as  re- 
ferring to  the  law,  which,  it  may  be  remarked,  prevails  in  nearly  all  of  the 
States,  both  Northern  and  Southern,  prohibiting  the  marriage  of  persons  of 
colored  blood  with  whites,  and  presuming  all  to  be  colored  who  have  more 
than  one-sixteenth  of  negro  or  Indian  blood.  It  would  seem  that  Toinette 
did  not  fall  within  this  categor}%  in  strictness,  but  the  fact  that  she  had  been 
a  slave  fixed  her  status  in  his  mind  as  clearly  as  if  she  had  borne  the  fea." 
tures  of  the  despised  race. 


''GET  THEE  BEHIND  ME,  SATAN?'  443 

ture  and  the  law  has  put  between  us  matrimonially  is 
insuperable.  Yet  you  know  I  love  you.  I  cannot  live 
without  you.  Consider,  Toinette,  the  difficulties.  Why 
can  we  not  enjoy  the  substance  without  quarreling  about 
the  shadow?" 

Then  she  burst  out  on  him. 

"Because  the  passion  which  would  degrade  its  ob- 
ject is  alike  unworthy  of  the  giver  and  the  recipient, 
and  a  disgrace  to  both.  No  gentleman  would  offer  it  to 
any  woman  he  pretended  to  love." 

"Very  well,  madame,"  said  he,  bitterly,  "you  will 
find  that  Geoffrey  Hunter  will  never  demean  himself  by 
marrying  a  nigger !  You  had  better  go  back  North  and 
try  your  wiles  on  some  of  the  Yankees  who  have  put 
these  infamous  notions  into  your  head.  Social  equality 
will  never  prevail  here;  I  can  promise  you  that.  Go, 
by  all  means." 

His  brow  black  with  the  offended  pride  of  race  and  caste, 
Geoffrey  Hunter  left  the  woman  whom  he  truly  loved, 
overwhelmed  with  anger  because  her  virtue  had  resisted 
his  shameful  advances.  He  passed  down  the  steps  and 
out  along  the  path  where  his  horse  was  pawing  and  toss- 
ing his  head  with  impatience. 

While  they  had  talked,  one  of  the  sudden  storms  of 
early  summer  had  arisen.  Now  the  black,  dense  clouds 
with  gray-rifted  rain-fronts  were  coming,  sweeping  on, 
and  the  wild  breath  of  the  mad  storm  was  tossing  the 
leaves  and  bending  the  trees  in  its  path.  Its  dark,  chill 
presence  rested  majestically  upon  the  Lodge  and  its  sur- 
roundings, and  its  dull,  fierce  roar  mingled  with  his 
words  of  angry  parting. 


444  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

He  tore  the  bridle  from  the  rack,  and,  jumping  into 
the  frail  vehicle,  shook  the  lines,  spoke  sharply  to  the 
fretting  steed,  and,  with  angry  imprecations,  dashed 
along  the  road  into  the  very  face  of  the  coming  storm. 

Upon  the  porch  of  the  Lodge  two  figures  watched 
his  course — the  boy,  who  wept  with  disappointment,  and 
the  woman,  who  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand  and  with 
a  calm  but  mournful  gaze  watched  his  course  until  the 
coming  darkness  veiled  him  from  her  view. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

GOOD-BY,  SWEETHEART. 

THE  day  after  his  interview  with  Toinette    at  the 
Lodge,  Geoffrey  Hunter  wrote : 
"  Toinette  : 

"  I  cannot  part  from  you  thus  in  anger.  T'orgive  my 
hasty  temper,  which  seemed  to  make  me  do  you  injust- 
ice. I  was  wrong  and  you  were  right ;  quite  right  to  re- 
fuse all  love  but  that  which  profiers  honorable  marriage. 
And  yet,  Toinette,  I  cannot  marry  you,  however  wildly 
I  love  you.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I.  Besides  all 
else  there  is  the  law,  which  puts  an  impenetrable  wall 
between  us.  It  is  said  to  be  based  on  the  law  of  God. 
I  do  not  know.  It  seems  unreasonable,  but  we  cannot 
violate  it,  even  if  willing  to  face  all  other  obstacles.  It 
would  disgrace  and  ruin  us  both.  But  your  presence 
makes  me  forget  all  else.  I  can  only  remember  that  you 
live — only  seek  to  possess  you.  Do  not  go  away,  Toinette. 
Perhaps  the  time  may  come  when  this  cruel  necessity  will 
not  rest  upon  us.  God  knows  what  of  change  may  not  oc- 
cur. I  would  willingly  give  up  all  else  for  your  love,  but  I 
cannot  change  my  idenity — I  cannot  lose  myself.  Why  has 
not  the  convulsion  which  has  wrought  the  miracle  of  liber- 
ty for  so  many  freed  me  also  from  the  shackles  of  the  past } 
But  alas  !  it  has  not.    I  am  still  Geoffrey  Hunter.    I  can  be 

445 


446  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

no  other.     The  chains  of  the  slave  have  been  transfer- 
red to  the  master. 

"  Grant  me  one  brief  interview  at  least  before  you  go. 
All  will  be  dark  afterward.  That  which  would  have 
made  me  always  happy  is  denied  me.  Do  not  refuse 
me  this  last  request,  for  the  sake  of  the  child  I  have 
learned  to  love  second  only  to  yourself. 

"  Geoffrey  Hunter." 

Toinette  sighed  as  she  read.  Geoffrey  Hunter  had 
been  her  idol  so  long  that  defects  in  his  character 
were  like  motes  in  a  sunbeam.  She  was  sorry  he  had 
written.  He  was  much  nobler  in  the  fierceness  of  his  • 
wrath  the  day  before.  Her  "  royal  gentleman "  was 
discrowned.  It  seemed  belittling  his  manhood  to  con- 
fess his  love,  and,  at  the  same  time,  yield  so  tamely  to 
obstacles.  She  was  ashamed  that  her  Samson  was 
bound  with  the  green  withes  of  prejudice,  and  yielded 
to  their  restraint  so  readily.  Why  was  he  given  that 
grand  strength  1  Where  was  his  manhood,  that  he 
should  sit  down  like  a  child  and  say,  "I  would,  but  I 
dare  not.'*"  Something  like  contempt  grew  up  in  her 
bosom,  yet  she  did  not  wish  to  indulge  in  such  feeling. 
It  was  really  mixed  with  sadness  even  now. 

She  was  like  an  artisan  who  has  wrought  upon  a 
lens  for  many  long  and  weary  months,  hoping  and  ex- 
pecting that  it  will  be  clearer  and  stronger  than  any  which 
has  ever  before  been  made.  Day  by  day  he  has  cut  and 
carved,  ground  and  polished,  with  tireless  care  and  a 
skill  which  only  years  of  toil  can  give,  and  every  night  he 
has  guarded  his  work  from  injury  with  a  love  as  jealous 


GOOD-BY,  SWEETHEART.  447 

as  a  miser  would  bestow  upon  a  Koh-i-noor.  With  it  he 
expected  that  the  arcana  of  nature  might  be  unlocked, 
and  the  mysteries  of  the  heavens  be  read  aright.  But 
just  when  it  is  ready  for  the  mounting,  and  he  comes  to 
apply  the  final  test,  he  finds  that  it  has  one  slight  de- 
fect. It  is  a  very  slight  one.  To  any  eye  but  that  of 
the  scientific  expert  it  is  a  perfect  crystal — clear  as  a 
diamond,  exquisitely  cut  and  finished.  There  is  only 
that  little  flaw  where  the  fibres  crossed  and  knotted  in 
cooling,  where  an  imprisoned  bubble  produces  a  diver- 
sion of  the  rays  passing  through  it  and  distorts  the 
transmitted  image.  It  is  only  a  shght  defect,  but  it  is  a 
fatal  one.  So  it  was  with  this  note.  It  was  the  bubble 
in  Geoffrey's  mind  to  the  love-testing  gaze  of  Toinette. 
It  was  easier  to  go  away  from  him  now  that  he  was 
so  ready  to  give  her  up  at  the  demand  of  prejudice. 
If  he  had  held  his  peace  she  would  have  given  him 
credit  for  suffering  and  enduring  silently.  She  had  not 
really  expected  him  to  run  counter  to  all  that  stood  in 
his  way — at  least  not  after  that  ruthless  scene  in  the 
hospital — until  he  had  come  with  his  eyes  open  to  all 
that  time  had  wrought,  and  had  sought  her  love.  Even 
then  she  did  not  entirely  expect  it ;  but  he  might  at 
least  have  made  an  indignant  protest  against  the  shack- 
les he  was  bound  to  wear.  She  would  have  suffered 
all  with  him — for  him — willingly,  if  he  had  bowed  with- 
out yielding.  She  did  not  demand  marriage,  but  her 
heart  insisted  on  the  love  which  sanctifies  that  relation. 
It  was  the  knowledge  that  he  would  be  content  with 
less,  that  he  would  offer  a  love  which  would  debase 
its  object,  that  he  would  persuade  her  to  yield  herself 


448  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

to  shame,  which  cut  her  to  the  quick.  She  would  go 
away  before  her  idol  shattered  himself  completely  at 
her  feet.  She  would  not  see  him  again.  Henceforth 
she  had  only  her  boy  and  herself.  She  would  be 
something  that  would  take  away  the  stigma  of  the 
past.  She  would  win  what  she  did  not  inherit — a  name 
— a  name  without  reproach.  She  was  young  yet — 
only  twenty-three.  How  wide  the  world  seemed  !  There 
must  be  something  in  it  for  her  to  do  and  win.  With 
her  boy  to  inspire,  what  might  she  not  accomplish .? 
Her  dawning  ambition  made  her  spirit  buoyant  and 
confident.  She  knew  too  little  of  the  world  to  estimate 
aright  the  obstacles  before  her. 

So  she  sat  down  and  wrote,  in  reply: 

"  Col.  Hunter  will  pardon  me  for  declining  to  accede 
to  his  request.  To  do  so  would  only  produce  unneces- 
sary pain." 

Then  she  pondered  long  as  to  how  she  should  sign  it. 
She  had  the  heritage  of  the  slave — no  patronymic.  She 
had  been  known  as  Mrs.  Hunter.  The  freedman  took 
the  name  of  his  master.  She  had  done  the  same,  merely 
following  the  custom,  but  she  could  bear  that  name  no 
longer.  It  was  the  badge  of  something  more  than  bond- 
age now — the  name  of  a  dead  love,  a  perished  hope. 
She  would  bear  her  father's  name  hereafter.  Slavery  and 
the  past  should  thereby  drop  out  of  her  life  at  once.  It 
should  serve  her  present  purpose,  too.  When  she  went 
away  from  Lovett  Lodge  forever  she  would  take  with 
her  its  name.  She  would  be  Antoinette  Lovett.  No 
one   would   trace   her   by  that.      Even    Geoffrey,  if  he 


GOOD-BV,  SWEETHEART.  449 

should  try,  would  not  think  of  such  a  simple  subterfuge. 
She  would  bury  herself  and  her  boy  in  the  great  busy 
world.  She  would  cut  him  off  from  his  own  past  and 
hers,  by  linking  him  in  name  with  a  still  remoter  past. 
She  would  bear  her  father's  name  and  belong  to  his  race. 
For  the  last  time  she  would  write  the  name  which  had 
but  lately  sounded  so  sweetly  in  her  ears,  when  uttered 
by  the  lip  whose  accents  she  had  heard  for  the  last  time. 
She  took  her  pen,  signed  the  note  "  Toinette,"  and  dis- 
patched it  to  Geoffrey  Hunter. 

He  was  thunderstruck  when  he  received  it.  The 
petted  slave-girl  had  made  another  metamorphosis.  She 
had  not  only  met  his  love  with  warmth,  and  then  repelled 
his  disgraceful  overtures  with  the  severity  of  a  vestal, 
but  now  she  dismissed  him  with  the  dignity  and  cool- 
ness of  a  queen,  and  the  grace  of  a  practiced  coquette. 
Would  he  never  learn  her  many-sided  character.?  He 
would  see  her,  whether  she  desired  it  or  not.  He  could 
not  part  with  her  thus.  Could  he  part  with  her  at  all.^^ 
The  world  seemed  empty  enough  without  her  presence. 
Why  should  he  give  her  up  1  Disgrace  1  What  disgrace 
had  he  to  fear.  They  would  be  few — he  smiled  grimly 
as  he  thought  of  it — who  would  attribute  anything  dis- 
creditable to  the  man  who  was  first  over  the  walls 
of  Steadman  —  Fort  Hell,  they  called  it  —  appropri- 
ately enough,  too.  He  need  not  fear  disgrace.  A 
few  silly  women  might  wag  their  tongues  against  him. 
What  did  he  care .?  His  prospects .?  What  prospects 
had  he  to  be  injured  by  anything.?  The  war  had  de- 
stroyed all  hope  of  political  preferment,  and  he  had  no 
desire  for  any  other.      The   fates   had  marked  out   an 


450  ^  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

even  course  of  life  for  nim  as  Geoffrey  Hunter,  gentle- 
man farmer,  or  gentleman  lounger,  as  the  case  might  be. 
Nothing  more.  Why  should  he  not  go  abroad  and 
take  Toinette  with  him  ?  That  was  poor  Arthur  Lov- 
ett's  plan.  He  w^ould  have  done  better  if  he  had  car- 
ried it  out,  too.  He  lacked  nerve.  It  was  not  strange 
that  he  did.  It  was  a  fearful  thing  to  marry  one  's  own 
nigger.  He  felt  that.  He  would  rather  have  faced 
Fort  Hell  at  its  hottest  than  do  the  like.  Yet  he  was 
just  at  this  moment  considering  it.  Perhaps — pshaw/ 
He  would  go  and  see  her  once  more,  anyhow.  Just  to 
show  her  that  he  could  demean  himself  as  a  gentleman, 
if  nothing  more.  She  had  said  she  was  going  on  Wed- 
nesday. He  would  see  her  on  Tuesday  evening.  So 
he  determined. 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

A    FAITHFUL    STEWARDSHIP. 

WHEN  Toinette  informed  Betty  Certain  ot  ner 
determination,  and  the  reasons  which  influenced 
her  in  its  adoption,  the  surprise  of  the  good  woman  was 
unbounded. 

"  Sure  enough,"  she  said;  "the  most  natural  thing  in 
the  world,  though  I  am  at  the  first  of  it  but  this  very 
minute." 

The  more  she  considered  the  matter,  the  better  she 
seemed  to  appreciate  Toinette's  position  and  honor  her 
motives. 

"  Yes,  certainly,"  she  had  said,  "  you  cannot  stay  here 
any  longer;  but  where  will  you  go,  and  what  will  you 
do.?" 

Toinette  replied  that  she  did  not  know.  She  would 
go  somewhere  and  find  something  to  do.  Of  that  she 
was  sure.  Betty  Certain  was  not  satisfied.  She  wan- 
dered about  all  Sunday  afternoon,  with  her  hands 
clasped  behind  her  like  a  man,  thinking  it  over.  And 
when  Toinette  retired  at  night  she  left  her  still  pacing 
backward  and  forward  in  the  moonlight  under  the  bud- 
ding oaks. 

"Go  to  bed,  child,"  she  had  said  tenderly  when  Toi- 
nette came  to  persuade  her  to  retire.  "Go  to  bed  an' 
sleep.     Betty  Certain  's  got  a  heap  to  think  of  on  your 


452  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN, 

account  to-night,  and  she  hopes  you  '11  sleep  sounder  for 
it  many  a  night  hereafter." 

Youth,  health,  and  an  untroubled  conscience  enabled 
Toinette  to  comply  with  this  injunction  in  spirit  as  well 
as  letter.  She  woke  once  in  the  night  and  saw  that  her 
old  friend  was  not  in  her  bed.  She  listened  and  could 
not  hear  the  monotonous  tramp  of  the  thoughtful  watch- 
er beneath  the  trees.  She  wondered  at  it,  but  soon  slept 
again. 

She  little  thought  that  the  poor-white  woman  that  night 
bowed  by  the  rocky  seat  under  the  newly-leaved  dogwood 
trees,  where  Arthur  Lovett  had  knelt  twenty  years  before, 
to  ask  for  guidance  in  her  duty  toward  Arthur  Lovett 's 
daughter.  Did  she  seek  for  aid  from  God  or  Arthur 
Lovett .''  It  would  be  hard  to  tell.  The  two  were  strange- 
ly blended  in  that  brave  and  faithful  heart.  Arthur 
Lovett's  wish  was,  to  her  mind,  but  the  reflex  of  God's 
will;  for  the  essence  of  both  was  right  and  truth. 

For  a  long  time  she  communed  with  the  past,  and 
when  she  rose  her  mind  had  grasped  its  relations  to  the 
present  and  the  future  in  a  manner  quite  satisfactory  to 
herself.  She  liad  given  up  some  cherished  dreams,  and 
had  prepared  herself  for  another  term  of  self-sacrifice 
and  devotion  to  the  duty  which  Arthur  Lovett  had  de- 
volved on  her  as  the  price  of  his  love.  The  next  morn- 
ing she  asked  Toinette  to  come  into  the  library,  and, 
sitting  there  with  the  girl's  head  in  her  lap,  she  talked 
of  the  future  to  her. 

"  I  Ve  been  thinking,  Toinie,  what  I  ought  to  do  in 
the  course  things  are  taking  now.  You  know  I  hev  just 
considered  myself  always  as  only  a  trustee  or   agent  for 


A  FAITHFUL   STEWARDSHIP.  453 

Arthur  Lovett  as  regards  the  property  here,  which  came 
into  my  hands  as  executrix.  You  know  it  was  his  will 
that  one-half  should  go  to  your  mother  and  her  children 
after  the  expense  of  freeing  them  had  been  paid,  and 
the  other  half  to  me.  You  were  all  to  be  freed,  though, 
'fore  any  division  took  place,  if  it  took  the  whole  estate 
to  do  it.  Well,  as  things  turned  out,  there  was  n't  any 
need  for  that  expense,  so  now  the  whole  estate  is  for  di- 
vision. Your  mother,  brother,  and  sister  are  dead.  I 
managed  to  trace  the  latter,  and  found  she  died  only  a 
year  or  two  after  being  sold.  So,  you  see,  you  and  I  are 
the  only  heirs.  You  know  I  took  the  place  in  '60.  It  's 
been  a  bad  time  to  farm  since  then,  but  it  hain't  run 
down  on  my  hands.  I  hired  the  hands  to  work  it  the 
first  year,  and  then  the  war  began ;  an'  if  I  could  ever 
hev  been  tempted  to  buy  a  slave,  I  was  saved  from  it  by 
the  conviction,  which  I  could  never  get  rid  of,  that  the 
war  would  be  a  failure  and  slave  property  a  dead  loss 
when  it  was  over.  Geoffrey  Hunter  tried  to  have  me 
buy,  but  I  held  off  and  kept  on  hirin'.  Castin'  about 
for  something  in  which  to  invest  the  money  the  crops 
brought,  I  could  think  of  nothin'  that  seemed  to  promise 
a  chance  of  safety  but  land.  I  thought  that  would  be 
here  when  the  war  was  over,  an'  be  less  likely  to  be  de- 
stroyed than  any  other  property.  So  I  turned  the  terbac- 
ker  crop  every  year  except  the  last  one  into  land.  Land 
was  high  and  not  much  on  't  for  sale,  but  I  did  the  best 
I  could,  an'  it's  turned  out  better  'n  I  expected.  Most  on 
it  joins  the  plantation  here,  so  that  now,  instead  of  one 
thousand  acres,  the  Lovett  Lodge  plantation  amounts  to 
nigh  double  that.     Its  all  prime  terbacker  land,  bringing 


454  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

a  light  staple  but  curing  up  bright  and  even,  30  as  to  just 
suit  the  style  of  fine  cured  leaf  that's  all  the  rage  now. 
There  are  a  few  hundred  dollars  due  on  the  last  purchase 
yet,  but  my  last  crop  is  in  the  hands  of  the  commission 
merchants,  and  at  the  wonderful  price  terbacker  is  bring- 
ing since  the  war  will  not  only  pay  this  but  leave  a  hand- 
some surplus.  It 's  all  good  quality,  a  fine  lot  of  light 
wrappers,  and  the  best  grade  of  lugs  I  have  ever  made. 
"  One-half  of  this'is  yours,  now,  for  I  have  taken  the 
title  to  myself,  in  all  cases,  as  executrix  of  Arthur 
Lovett,  and  the  lawyers  tell  me  that  we  are  what  they  call 
joint-tenants  of  it  all,  with  equal  rights  and  powers  over 
it.  It  will  all  be  yours  if  you  should  outlive  old  Betty 
Certain — as  I  trust  you  may,  many  a  year. 

"  At  present  prices  these  lands  will  yield  a  revenue 
that  would  have  astonished  poor  Arthur,  in  his  day.  It's 
true  the  land  won't  bring  much,  nothing  like  what  it 
oughter,  according  to  its  yield  of  terbacker.  However, 
it  will  turn  out  enough  every  year  for  us  to  live  on,  and 
live  well  too.  So  that  you  need  not  have  any  fear  on 
that  score.  You  're  able  to  live  without  help  from  Mr. 
Geoffrey  Hunter  or  any  one  else. 

"Now,  I  had  always  intended  to  sell  out  and  go 
North  with  you  when  the  war  was  over.  Somehow,  I 
thought  that  must  be  a  more  kindly  climate  for  poor 
whites  and  free  niggers  than  this,  for  many  a  year  to 
come.  *  What's  bred  in  the  bone,'  you  know,  dear. 
Now  take  your  ease.  You  are  as  fair  and  accomplished 
as  any  lady  in  the  land;  fairer  than  most,  and  better 
educated,  in  fact,  than  many.  I  have  heard  Geoffrey 
Hunter  boast  that  you  did  great  credit  to  his  teaching, 
more  than  he  had  ever  expected. 


A  FAITHFUL  STEWARDSHIP.  455 

"Many  a  year — perhaps  many  a  generation — must 
pass,  however,  before  such  as  Geoffrey  Hunter  could 
unite  himself  with  you  in  marriage,  no  matter  what  may 
have  been  your  previous  relations.  It  would  be  social 
and  political  suicide.  So,  too,  the  time  will  never  come, 
whilst  I  live,  that  Betty  Certain  will  not  be  a  mere  '  poor 
poll,'  because  her  father  did  not  happen  to  own  slaves. 
Oh  !  I  know  the  spirit  that  lives  among  this  people. 
The  few  have  lorded  it  over  the  many  so  long  that  they 
will  cling  to  the  scepter  until  the  last  moment. 

"  As  I  said,  it  has  been  my  idea  to  sell  out  and  go 
North  with  you.  But  the  misfortune  is,  the  lands  are 
worth  nothing  now,  for  no  one  has  the  money  to  buy. 
So  I  thought  we  would  stay  here  for  a  few  years,  till 
prices  improved — as  they  soon  will,  if  terbacker  keeps 
up — and  then  sell  and  move  off.  In  any  event  I  meant 
to  keep  with  you.  Somehow,  you  seem  nigher  to  me 
than  any  one  else,  if  there  is  supposed  to  be  colored 
blood  in  your  veins, — as  if  you  orter  have  been  my 
daughter.  You  have  your  father's  great,  wonderful  dark 
eyes,  and  his  graceful,  quiet,  attractive  ways.  So  I  had 
always  planned  it  out  that  after  we  had  spent  a  few 
years  here,  saving  and  laying  up  as  w^e  could,  that;  we 
would  go  away  where  no  one  would  ever  know  that  you 
had  been  a  slave,  or  I  a '  poor  white,'  and  end  our  days 
in  some  cozy  corner,  where  the  outlook  on  earth  would 
be  brighter,  and  heaven  perhaps  a  little  nigher,  or  over 
a  better  road,  at  least. 

"  But  this  thing  has  come  on  me  so  sudden-like,  that 
it  has  marred  all  my  plans,  perhaps  frustrated  them  for- 
ever.     As  you   say,  you  must  go  away   from    here  at 


456  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

once.  I  know  the  Hunter  family  better  than  you.  If 
there  's  one  quality  they  've  got  more  of  than  any  other, 
it  's  obstinacy — sheer,  straight-out  obstinacy.  Geoffrey 
Hunter  will  no  more  think  of  giving  you  up,  because 
you  have  refused  to  listen  to  his  improper  advances, 
than  he  would  of  marrying  you — which  he  would  never 
think  of  doin',  unless  he  went  plumb  crazy.  I  see  it 
makes  ye  wince,  gal,  an'  I  don't  wonder,  for  there  a'  n't 
a  spark  of  reason  in  it. 

"  God  made  you  as  beautiful,  as  pure,  and  as  bright 
as  He  ever  created  woman ;  but  He  made  you  a  slave, 
too,  and,  for  some  inscrutable  reason,  He  mixed  one 
lone  drop  of  black  blood  with  the  warm  tide  that  man- 
tles to  your  cheek,  and  when  He  did  that.  He  separated 
you  and  Geoffrey  Hunter,  so  far  as  lawful  love  is  con- 
cerned, further  than  the  East  is  from  the  West. 

"  For  two  hundred  years  that  custom  which  is  more 
powerful  than  law  has  said,  '  You  may  take  the  colored 
woman  as  a  concubine,  and  raise  up  children  who  shall 
wear  the  bond  of  the  slave,  or  the  degradation  of  the 
free  black,  but  neither  God's  holy  ordinance,  nor  the 
willing  covenant,  which  constitutes  marriage  in  the  law, 
shall  sanctify  your  union,  or  save  your  children  from 
shame.' 

"  Against  this  custom,  this  tradition,  Geoffrey  Hunter 
must  butt  his  head  if  he  would  marry  you,  my  dear,  and 
he  will  never  do  it.  He  is  not  afraid  of  any  danger 
but  what  he  conceives  to  be  dishonor;  the  loss  of  repu- 
tation, position,  influence,  he  shrinks  from  with  a  mortal 
terror.  He  might  die  for  love  of  you,  but  he  will  never 
marry   you,  Toinette.      Neither   will  he   give   you    up. 


A  FAITHFUL  STEWARDSHIP.  457 

Thinking  that  you  will  see  the  futility  of  your  hope,  and 
the  strength  of  his  devotion — which,  indeed,  I  do  think 
is  very  great — and  will  finally  yield  to  your  love,  he 
will  continue  to  pursue  you  until  his  purpose  is  ac- 
complished. 

"Well,"  seeing  Toinette's  dissenting  gesture,  "per- 
haps he  might  never  accomplish  that,  but  your  life  would 
be  made  miserable  by  his  unceasing  importunities.  So 
you  must  go  away  at  once. 

"  This  means,  too,  that  I  must  as  certainly  stay. 
Why?  Because,  don't  you  see?  we  are  not  ready  to 
sell.  You  must  have  money  to  live  on,  and  I  must  stay 
here  and  make  it. 

"No,  not  a  word.  Do  as  I  tell  you.  Old  Betty 
Certain  has  been  faithful  enough  to  Arthur  Lovett's 
memory,  an'  wishes  to  claim  a  sort  of  obedience  from 
his  daughter.  Has  n't  she?  There,  there,  I  did  n't 
mean  to  blame  you,  child.  Do  n't  cry,  please.  It  puts 
me  out  to  see  your  bright  eyes  full  of  tears  and  think 
that  I  have  caused  them. 

"  Well,  as  I  said,  do  you  go  now  just  where  you  wish, 
and  live  as  it  best  suits  you,  only  this :  you  must  live 
like  a  lady,  wherever  you  are.  Remember  that :  no 
scrimping,  no  pinching,  but  as  a  lady  ought  to  live,  and 
Betty  Certain  will  furnish  the  money — out  of  your  prop- 
erty, and  what  your  father  left  her. 

"  Yes,  I  '11  come  too,  as  soon  as  ever  I  get  the  last 
place  paid  for,  and  can  sell  to  advantage.  Betty  Cer- 
tain don't  want  to  be  an  overseer  all  her  life,  but  she 
will  do  it  a  while  longer  to  help  Arthur  Lovett's  daughter 
and  her  own  Toinette,     Ye  see,  dear,  I   have  a  double 

38 


458  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

claim  on  you :  your  father's  memory  and  injunction, 
and  the  love  that  grew  up  between  us  before  I  knew 
who  you  were.  I  have  never  felt  towards  you  the  same 
as  others,  since  I  saw  you  with  that  hole  in  your  white 
bosom,  so  like  the  scar  that  bleeds  always  in  my 
memory." 

Overcome  with  emotion,  the  "poor-white"  woman 
clasped  the  sobbing  Toinette  to  her  breast,  and  kissed 
her  again  and  again,  while  the  tears  flowed  like  rain 
down  her  hard  furrowed  cheek.  She  had  quite  over- 
come the  strange  shyness  which  she  had  felt  towards 
Toinette  soon  after  her  return,  and  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten the  prejudice  arising  from  her  birth  altogether. 

"  There,  there,"  she  said,  at  length,  smiling,  and  put- 
ting her  hand  over  Toinette's  mouth,  "no  thanks.  Not 
a  word.  You  know  it  is  my  only  pleasure,  and  now  you 
would  spoil  it  all  by  putting  me  in  debt  for  the  sweet 
pretty  ways  in  which  you  would  thank  me.  No,  no; 
I'm  not  to  be  cheated  in  that  way.  Really,"  said  she, 
"  I  am  almost  glad  there  is  a  bar  to  your  marriage  with 
Geoffrey  Hunter;  I  shall  have  you  all  to  myself  now,  and 
there  is  nothing  to  prevent  my  loving  you,  thank  God  !" 
and  she  wound  her  strong  arms  about  the  slender  girl, 
and  laughed  amid  her  tears. 

"  The  *  poor-white  '  and  the  slave  are  too  nigh  of  kin 
to  marry  even  if  we  were  not  both  women — which,  thank 
God,  we  are — so  we  can  trust  each  other." 

"  Well,  well,"  she  continued,  after  a  short  time,  as  she 
dried  her  eyes  and  repressed  her  sobs,  "you  must  be 
thinking  of  getting  away.  When  did  you  tell  him  you 
were  going.?" 


A  FAITHFUL  STEWARD  SHIP.  459 

"Wednesday,"  said  Toinette. 

"  Wednesday  ?  then  he  '11  be  here  afore  sundown  of  a 
Tuesday  evening,  sure.  You  must  take  the  Tuesday 
morning  train.     And  where  will  you  go,?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  replied  Toinette. 

"  Do  not  know  .'*     That  means  you  will  not  tell." 

"  You  cannot — "  began  Toinette  in  protest. 

"  Stop,"  said  her  companion,  "  you  are  right.  It  is 
altogether  better  that  I  should  not  know  for  the  present. 
There  is  the  firm  name  of  my  New  York  factors.  Let 
them  know  your  address,  and  write  to  me  through  them. 
Draw  on  me  through  them  for  whatever  funds  you  may 
require." 

And  so  it  was  done  as  they  had  planned.  Toinette 
left  a  letter  for  Geoffrey  Hunter,  should  he  come  to 
the  Lodge ;  with  many  tears  bade  adieu  to  the  faithful 
stewardess  of  her  dead  father's  bounty,  and  with  her 
wondering  child  turned  her  face  again  northward  in 
search  of  some  place  where  she  might  forget  what 
:she  had  been,  and  either  begin  a  new  life  or  at  least 
decently  bury  the  old.  She  clasped  the  child  to  her 
heart,  and,  young  as  she  was,  felt  that  she  lived  only 
in  him,  and  so  filled  the  future  with  dreams  of  which 
he  was  the  sun  and  center. 


CHAPTER  XLVIL 

THE    SEAL    OF    THE    SEPULCHER. 

BETTY  CERTAIN'S  prediction  was  well  proved, 
for  the  afternoon  of  Tuesday  was  but  half  spent 
when  Geoffrey  Hunter  drew  rein  before  Lovett  Lodge 
once  more.  He  noticed  as  he  approached,  under  the 
great  oaks  on  the  lawn,  that  the  house  seemed  very  still 
— almost  deserted.  Little  Geoffrey  was  nowhere  in 
sight,  nor  did  he  hear  his  voice  as  usual.  Could  he  be 
ill }  It  was  with  a  strange  foreboding  that  he  advanced 
to  the  library,  the  door  of  which  stood  open,  and  beheld 
sitting  in  the  great  arm-chair  by  the  table — Miss  Betty 
Certain. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  dull,  heavy  eyes,  which 
bore  the  trace  of  weeping,  and  nodded  response  to  his 
greeting. 

"Where  is  Toinette  .?"  asked  Geoffrey,  in  a  tone  of 
alarm. 

"  Gone,"  said  the  woman,  doggedly.  "  You  ought  to 
know,  you  drove  her  away." 

She  was  not  inclined  to  spare  him. 

"  Gone  where  .'' — when  ?"  he  questioned. 

"  I  do  n't  know  where,  but  she  went  away  this  morn- 
ing," she  answered,  testily. 

"Gone!  gone!"  said  Geoffrey  Hunter,  "  and  you  do 
not  know  where  }  Did  she — that  is — have  you  any  mes- 
sage for  me.^" 

"    ^  46Q 


THE  SEAL  OF  THE  SEPULCHER.  461 

'*  I  have,"  she  answered,  "a  message  and  a  parcel 
for  you.  Here  is  the  parcel.  The  message  is  a  singular 
one,  but  I  am  bound  to  deliver  it  as  she  told  me.  She — 
that  is,  Toinette — desired  me  to  tell  you  that  it  was  her 
request  that  you  should  read  the  enclosure  I  have  just 
handed  you,  in  the  secret  room  which  opens  off  from 
this." 

"  Her  request  shall  be  law  to  me  in  this,"  said  Geof- 
frey, tenderly,  as  he  took  the  packet  from  her  hands. 

Betty  Certain  rose  and  left  the  library,  closing  the 
door  after  her. 

After  a  few  moments,  Geoffrey  Hunter  opened  the 
door  of  the  wardrobe  and  touched  the  familiar  knob. 
The  door  swung  open,  and  he  entered  the  secret  room 
at  Lovett  Lodge.  It  showed  signs  of  recent  occupancy. 
The  little  table  was  drawn  before  the  hearth,  and  a  chair 
stood  beside  it.  By  a  sort  of  instinct  he  felt  that  it 
had  been  lately  used  by  Toinette.  He  closed  the  door, 
sat  down  by  the  table,  broke  the  seal  of  the  packet 
which  he  had  received,  and  read : 

"Geoffrey  Hunter: 

"  I  am  writing  this  in  the  secret  room  at  Lovett 
Lodge.  You  will  readily  comprehend  why  I  chose  to 
retire  here  to  address  you  the  last  communication  which 
you  will  receive  from  me.  Little  did  I  think,  when  you 
first  disclosed  to  my  wondering  eyes  this  mystery  of  our 
abode,  that  it  would  ever  be  so  closely  linked  with  that 
inner  life  which  the  daily  routine  of  existence  does  but 
hide  from  those  who  observe  it  only  outwardly.  As, 
trembling  with  the  mysterious   dread  which  your   nar- 


462  A  ROYAL  gentleman: 

rative  of  all  that  you  knew  of  its  history  had  inspired, 
I  came  with  you  through  the  door  and  down  the  steps 
into  the  hidden  room,  where  the  sunshine  through  the 
one  window  above  poured  down  the  warmth  and  glad- 
ness of  the  spring-time  afternoon,  you  cannot  imagine 
the  strange,  rapturous  joy  which  seized  my  being.  God's 
sunshine  and  my  master's  presence  made  it  heaven.  I 
did  not  know  then  why  I  was  so  happy.  I  do  now.  It 
was  freedom — the  freedom  of  love.  All  the  shackles  of 
the  world  were  cast  aside.  My  spirit  was  as  free  as 
yours.  The  mastership  which  crowned  your  brow  was 
not  that  which  your  father's  deed  conveyed,  but  the 
kingliness  of  love.  The  owner  was  shut  out ;  the  king 
whom  I  adored  alone  was  w4th  me  then.  And  you,  too, 
bowed  beneath  the  yoke  of  love.  Our  souls  were  peers 
in  that  blissful  moment.  You  did  not  come  down  to 
my  level,  nor  had  I  risen  up  to  yours,  in  the  eye  of  the 
world.  We  were  just  two  souls  meeting  on  the  same 
plane,  mutually  giving  and  receiving — asking  and  yield- 
ing a  regnant  love. 

"From  that  moment  I  ceased  to  be  a  slave.  No 
shackles  could  have  bound  me  afterwards.  My  soul 
was  yours  by  free  gift — my  friend,  my  companion.  And 
this  hidden  room  was  Paradise  to  me  from  that  day 
Nothing  could  loose  me  from  the  devotion  I  then  as- 
sumed but  your  own  act — perhaps  not  even  that.  Love 
is  not  easily  recalled.  If  its  treasures  are  once  squan- 
dered they  may  never  be  regained.  The  bankrupt  may 
recover  his  wealth,  but  the  prodigal  of  love  can  never 
re-collect  its  priceless  treasures. 

"  Do  not  think   I  blame  you  for  aught  that  followed. 


THE  SEAL  OF  THE  SEPULCHER.  4G3 

You  but  obe5'ed  the  dictates  of  a  love  whose  behests 
are  higher  than  any  human  law.  Your  inmost  soul 
recognized  the  falsity  of  that  social  relation  which 
placed  the  rod  in  your  hand  and  the  chain  upon  my 
wrist.  I  know  that  you  are  proud,  Geoffrey  Hunter ;  I 
could  never  have  loved  you  had  you  not  been.  But  I 
dare  to  tell  you,  now,  that  your  soul  was  at  its  best  and 
proudest  when  you  brushed  aside  the  cob-web  fictions 
which  clung  about  its  past,  and  we  met  heart  to  heart 
in  this  sanctuary,  peers  and  partners  in  heart.  I  was 
your  equal.  I  did  not  know  it  then,  nor  indeed  until  of 
late.  Now  I  see  it.  In  devotion,  in  steadfastness  of 
purpose^  in  the  self-sacrifice  of  holy  love,  I  was  your 
equal — perhaps  more  than  your  equal. 

"And  now  the  former  slave-girl  is  free;  free  of  limb 
by  your  instinct  of  justice;  free  of  heart  by  the  knowl- 
edge of  God's  truth.  Her  once  master  is  a  slave  now, 
bound  with  the  sinful  chains  which  generations  of 
slavery  have  forged  as  the  safeguard  of  that  great 
Moloch. 

"Upon  you,  the  master — the  legitimate  offspring  of 
the  dominant  race — this  evil,  with  a  thousand  others 
which  will  be  hereafter  recognized,  has  come  to  rest. 
That  domestic  love,  so  long  forbidden  to  the  slave,  re- 
venges itself  now  upon  the  master. 

"  In  your  passion  yesterday  you  would  have  led  me 
to  trample  on  my  womanhood.  I  know  .your  reason 
and  manhood  disclaim  that  unholy  thought,  for  there  is 
but  one  path  to  happiness  —  one  path  which  justice, 
truth  and  love  open  to  your  feet,  and  that  is  so  hedged 
up  that  you  dare  not  attempt  it.     The  heart  which  has 


464  ^  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

spurned  danger  in  a  thousand  forms  trembles  before  the 
mandate  of  exclusion  which  the  world  would  fulminate 
against  him  for  violation  of  its  edicts. 

"You  think  this  is  a  strange  farewell.  It  may  be, 
and  yet  not  stranger  than  that  which  you  improvised 
yesterday.  But  you  little  knew  your  Toinette  if  you 
thought  that  the  years  which  have  passed  since  we  sat 
here  together  had  taught  her  nothing.  They  could  not 
teach  her  to  love  you  more,  but  they  have  taught  her  to 
love  you  better.  She  would  but  ill  deserve  even  the 
smutched  and  tainted  love  you  proffered  her  if  she  could 
be  the  willing  instrument  of  soiling  your  soul  with  the 
deliberate  vice  of  continuing  in  the  light  of  freedom  the 
course  upon  which  we  stumbled  in  the  darkness  of 
slavery. 

"  Thank  God,  the  love  I  bear  you  is  too  pure  to 
bend  even  to  your  entreaty  to  evil.  I  seemed  to  you 
at  first,  no  doubt,  to  yield  yesterday  to  your  love.  If  I 
did  so,  it  was  only  because  I  had  taught  myself  to  be- 
lieve that  you  were  so  brave  and  true  that  you  would 
tear  aside  the  fictions  of  race  and  caste,  and  recognize 
and  reward  the  love  you  knew  I  cherished.  I  ought 
not  to  have  thought  so.  I  see  it  now.  You  are  but 
human,  and  that  would  require  superhuman  strength.  I 
ought  to  have  remembered  in  what  mould  you  were  cast, 
what  influences  had  been  around  you,  and  how  that 
noble  nature,  which  my  heart  had  discovered,  was  ham- 
pered in  its  development  and  crippled  in  its  action  by 
the  traditions  of  the  past. 

"  Expecting  so  much,  I  was,  for  a  time,  bitterly  dis- 
appointed.    Then  I  did  you  injustice.     That  Was  all — • 


THE  SEAL  OP  THE  SEPULCHER.  465 

until  I  received  your  note  of  this  morning,  in  which 
you  cite  the  infamous  law,  which  was  enacted,  it  would 
seem,  simply  to  give  an  excuse  for  the  perpetration  of 
crime,  and  to  perpetuate  the  vilest  evils  which  slavery 
engendered.  Christian  marriage  is  forbidden  in  the 
most  solemn  manner,  and  under  infamous  penalties ;  but 
unbounded  license  is  scarcely  rebuked.  If  it  is  such  a 
law  as  this  which  you  regard  as  above  the  sanctity  of  our 
love,  then,  indeed,  it  is  time  we  should  separate  forever. 
I  cannot  quench  my  love,  but  I  can  protect  myself  from 
temptation  and  shame. 

"  I  shall  leave  a  day  sooner  than  I  had  intended,  pur- 
posely to  avoid  your  presence,  being  satisfied  that  you 
will  seek  to  meet  me  again,  despite  my  refusal.  You 
would  never  dream  of  intruding  upon  one  whom  you 
would  term  "  a  lady"  after  she  had  declined  an  inter- 
view, but  you  cannot  regard  your  freedwoman  as  having 
even  the  paltry  right  of  refusing  her  presence,  when  you 
choose  to  demand  it. 

"  Whither  I  shall  go,  I  do  not  know,  nor  what  I  shall 
do.  The  world  is  wide,  and  I  shall  find  a  place  and  a 
work  that  will  serve  my  aim,  which  is  to  rear  and  edu- 
cate our  son,  that  he  may  be  worthy  of  his  father  at  his 
best  estate — his  fairest  possibility.  I  cannot  cease  to 
love  you,  but,  since  the  barriers  between  us  are  insur- 
mountable, I  shall  strive  only  to  remember  those  happier 
days,  when  this  room  was  the  paradise  of  a  love  than 
which  earth  knew  no  purer.  I  had  hoped  that  it 
might  receive  that  sanction  which  would  banish  the 
shadow  of  evil.  It  was  a  vain  hope — God  forgive  me,  a 
foolish  one — as  I  now  see.     Farewell,  Geoffrey  Hunter. 


4G6  A  ROYAL  GENTLEMAN. 

That   reputation,  honor,  and   prosperity  may  be  yours, 
shall  ever  be  the  prayer  of 

"  TOINETTE." 

"  P.  S. — I  shall  take  with  me  the  sword  that  was 
strapped  to  your  wrist  when  you  were  brought  to  the 
hospital.  I  have  kept  it  ever  since.  You,  perhaps,  did 
not  know  that  it  had  been  preserved.  I  wish  to  tell 
our  boy  the  story  of  his  father's  bravery,  when  he  shall 
be  old  enough  to  be  proud  of  it,  though  he  may  never 
know  his  name.  If  you  are  unwilling  that  I  should 
retain  it,  you  have  but  to  inform  our  old  friend,  Betty 
Certain,  and  it  will  be  returned.  T." 

Geoffrey  Hunter  read  the  letter  and  then  left  the 
house,  casting  a  sad  and  regretful  look  back  at  the 
room  which  had  so  many  and  such  strange  memories 
connected  with  it,  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  away. 

That  night  Betty  Certain  went  into  the  secret  room 
and  sat  for  a  long  time,  alone  in  the  moonlight,  thinking 
of  its  past.  Then  she  rose,  and  taking  hold  of  one  of 
the  brass-topped  andirons,  moved  it  aside,  and  one  of 
the  deep  jambs  of  the  chimney,  which  seemed  a  solid 
slab  of  soapstone,  fell  outward  upon  hinges,  as  Belle 
Lovett  had  described,  and  she  felt  the  chill  breezes  from 
without  come  sweeping  into  the  room. 

She  moved  it  back  and  closed  the  opening  again; 
then  looked  around  the  room  and  went  out  by  the  door 
,  into  the  wardrobe.  Then  she  took  out  the  knob  which 
served  to  lift  the  bolt,  letting  that  fall  back  into  the 
socket,  and  taking  a  man's  knife  from  her  pocket,  she 
whittled  a  piece  of  pine  to  fill  the  place  the  knob  had 


I  THE  SEAL  OF  THE  SEPULCHER.  467 

occupied.  She  drove  this  in  flush  and  smooth  with  the 
back  of  the  wardrobe,  and  then  screw^ed  into  the  plank 
one  of  the  black  japanned  wardrobe  hooks  of  modern 
days,  whose  base  covered  and  concealed  the  place  which 
the  wooden  knob  had  occupied.  Thus  the  inner  door 
was  sealed  up  beyond  danger  of  accidental  discovery  or 
ordinary  search. 

"  I  know  the  other  entrance,"  she  said,  "  and  that  is 
enough.  If  Arthur  Lovett  never  had  made  that  con- 
trivance it  might  have  saved  a  heap  of  trouble." 


The  Stack  Rocks  still  rear  their  gray  heads  to  sun 
and  storm,  like  a  mighty  Stonehenge  of  some  forgotten 
race  of  giants ;  the  river  flows  ever  onward — a  watery 
highway  to  the  sea ;  the  Master,  the  Slave,  and  the  Poor 
White,  late  dw^ellers  on  its  banks,  are  borne  down  the 
current  of  time  toward  the  great  ocean  of  a  common 
humanity. 

The  landmarks  of  the  Past  are  disappearing,  but  the 
fetters  of  brass  which  it  forged  are  yet  upon  the  hands 
which  the  eager  Present  stretches  forth  to  that  grim 
Sphinx — the  Future — whose  secret  no  man  knoweth. 

THE    END. 


'ZouRFS  Christmas. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 


I. — Wanted — A  Stocking 
II. — Missouri  Compromise 
III. — Uncle  Peter    . 
IV. — The  Fordman's  Gift 
V. — Impudence 
VI. — Compy  'Siders  on't  . 
VII. — A  Mistake  and  a  Misstep 
VIII. — Marse  Ben  and  Trumpeter 


PAGE 
469 

474 

480 

4S6 
493 
5^3 
514 
520 


'ZOURI'S  CHRISTMAS. 


* 


CHAPTER  /. 

WANTED — A    STOCKING. 


<( 


OH,    Aunt      Compy !       Aunt      Compy !      Aunt-y 
Comp-y!"  said  a  hesitatingly  persistent  voice. 
"La,  chile,  what  is  it  now.''     You've  ben  a-foUerin' 
ob  me  roun'  all  dis  bressed  mornin'  jes'  fer  all  de  worl' 
like  a  pet  pig  a-squealin'   arter  his  brekfuss.     What  is 


*  The  use  of  the  word  Christmas  at  the  South  is  curiously  con- 
tradistinguished from  the  same  word  at  the  North.  At  the  North 
it  means  the  twenty-fifth  of  December.  At  the  South  it  may 
either  mean  that  particular  day  or  include  the  week  succeeding. 
The  day  is  more  generally  designated  by  connecting  the  word  with 
Christmas  and  saying  "  Christmas-day,"  as  the  week  is  frequently 
denominated  "Christmas-week."  "  Z";^^  Christmas"  invariably 
means  the  week  following  the  day.  "  My  Christmas"  or  "  their 
Christmas"  is  used  indifferently  to  designate  either  a  gift  received 
at  Christmas  or  the  method  in  which  the  week  is  spent,  according 
to  the  context.  For  instance  a  man  will  say  "  I  had  a  capital 
Christmas,"  that  is,  enjoyed  the  week  capitally.  Or  a  boy  will  dis- 
play a  knife  and  say,  that  is  "  my  Christmas,"  that  is,  Christmas 
gift  or  present.  The  Christmas  salution  is  never  "Merry  Christ- 
mas !"  but  "  Christmas  Gift  !"  Its  observance  much  more  resem- 
bles a  secular  holiday  than  a  religious  one.  It  is  always  ushered 
in  with  the  firing  of  guns  and  popping  of  fireworks. 


470  'ZOUM'S   CHRISTMAS. 

it?  Speak  out !  'Speakin'  may  relieve  yer,'  ez  de  min- 
ister says  ter  de  sinner-folks  at  de  pra'ar-meetins. 
Now  whatever  duz  yer  want,  'Zouri  ?  ' 

The  speaker  was  a  sturdy,  good-natured  looking 
colored  woman  of  middle  age,  with  a  white-turbaned 
head,  a  snuff-stick  in  her  mouth,  and  sleeves  rolled 
above  her  elbows,  displaying  plump  and  comely  ebony 
arms  as  she  stood  with  a  hand  upon  each  hip  confront- 
ing the  inquiring  child.  She  spoke  not  unkindly,  and 
her  face  was  full  of  suppressed  laughter  as  she  looked 
down  upon  the  scraggly  bit  of  humanity  before  her. 

"  Aunt  Compy,"  said  'Zouri,  twisting  her  mouth 
about  in  dubious  perplexity  and  pulling  at  a  knot  of 
hair  with  one  hand  while  with  the  other  she  rolled  up 
her  linsey-woolsey  dress  in  unconscious  embarrassment 
until  an  unwonted  length  of  brown  leg  was  exposed — 
"Aunt  Compy,  mayn't  I  hev  a  stockin'?" 

"  Stockins  !  Yah!  yah!  yah!"  laughed  the  woman. 
"  Bress  my  soul  ef  de  chile  ain't  gettin'  proud !  What 
yer  gwine  ter  du  wid  stockins,  honey  ?  Gwine  ter  put 
'em  on  dat  leg.^"  pointing  to  the  exposed  limb.  "  Dey 
would  look  proud  dar,  now  wouldn't  dey  !  Will  yer 
hev  'em  open-work  or  knit  close  .-*  or  p'raps  ye '11  hev 
'em  'broidered .''  Sakes  alive!  but  ye're  gittin'  mighty 
ladyfied  sencc  yer's  ben  up  ter  de  great  house,  arn't 
yer,  now.-*" 

"  But  I  don't  want  'em  to  war ;  yer  knows  I  don't, 
Aunt  Compy,"  said  the  child  in  a  tone  of  grieved  re- 
monstrance. 

"  Don't  want  ter  war  'em  1  Lor'  bress  us,  what  else 
yer  gwine  ter  du  wid  stockins,  chile  V' 


WANTED— A    STOCKING.  471 

"  Ain't  Christmas  agwine  ter  come?"  asked  the  child 
suggestively. 

"  Christmas  gwine  ter  come  ?  Co'se  it  am ;  least- 
ways I  spects  'twill  ef  de  res'rection  don't  git  roun'  too 
soon  fer  it.  But  what's  dat  got  ter  du  wid  yer  stock- 
ins,  honey  ?  Yer  ain't  gwine  ter  enny  Christmas  ball 
dis  ye'r,  is  .yer?  Yer  ain't  quite  peart  nuff  for  dat  yet, 
I  reckon." 

"  I  wants  ter  hang  it  up  den,  Auntie." 

"  Sakes  alive,  what  yer  want  ter  hang  up  a  stockin* 
fer,  chile  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  knows.  Aunt  Compy.  What  yer  want  ter 
bother  'Zouri  fer?  Ain't  young  Mars  Ferdie  an'  Miss 
Sue  an'  all  de  chillen  up  ter  de  big  house  gwine  ter 
hang  up  der  stockins  in  de  chimbly  corner  de  night 
afore  de  Christmas,  so's  ter  hev  'em  handy  where  Marse 
Santy  Claus  kin  cum  down  der  chimbly  an'  put  de 
Chris'mus  gifs  in  'em  ?" 

"  La,  chile,  yer  don't  spose  ole  Santy's  ever  gwine 
ter  cum  ter  niggers'  houses,  does  yer  ?  Yah,  yah," 
added  Aunt  Compy,  while  her  fat  shoulders  shook  with 
laughter,  "  he's  got  too  much  sense  ter  cum  pokin' 
down  any  sech  old  stick-chimblys  ez  dat  ar,  he  hez. 
Santa  Claus  ain't  no  fool.  He  hain't  got  no  secon' 
hand  doll-babies,  wid  one  leg  off  an'  nary  an  arm  an' 
praps  one  eye  punched  out,  for  sech  Httle  niggers  ez 
you,  honey.  He  don't  keer  nuffin  'bout  us  Fo'teenth 
'Mendments,  he  don't.  He  'sociates  wid  white  folks, 
he  does." 

"  Now,  Aunt  Compy,  yer's  funnin'  at  me,  you  is," 
said  the  child  seriously;  "but  I  knows  'tain't  so;  coz 

29 


472  'ZOURrS  CHRISTMAS. 

didn't  I  hear  Miss  Sophy  tell  Marse  Ferdie  all'  bout  it — • 
how  dat  Marse  Santy  Claus  allers  comes  roun'  'bout 
Christmas-time,  wid  a  whole  cartful  ob  Christmas  gifs, 
and  comes  right  down  der  chimbly,  hisself,  an'  puts  all 
sorts  o'  nice  things  in  good  chillen's  stockins  ef  dey  jes 
hangs  'em  up  handy  roun'  de  jamb  ob  de  chimbly  de 
night  afore?  An'  didn't  I  hear  her  say  how  he  won't 
give  de  bad  chillens  ennything  only  praps  a  piece  o' 
rock,  er  a  lump  o'  dirt,  er  some  ole  mean  'simmons — or 
sumfin'  o'  dat  sort?" 

"  In  course  you  did,  honey,"  said  Aunt  Compy  with 
a  queer  look  in  her  eyes ;  "  but  bless  yer  heart,  chile, 
she  meant  white  chillen — dem  ez  lives  in  big  houses,  an* 
hez  rich  daddies  and  mammies,  what's  able  ter  buy 
Christmas  fer  der  chillen  !     Dat's  what  she  meant." 

"  No,  'twa'n't.  Aunt  Compy,"  persisted  the  child, 
"  coz  didn't  she  read  out  ob  the  big  Bible  wid  de  picters 
in  it  'bout  de  little  baby  dat  was  jes  de  sweetest  an' 
nicest  baby  ever  was  in  der  worl' — ever  was  er  ever 
will  be — wid  der  sun  shinin'  all  'bout  his  head,  what 
was  brung  tu  his  mammy  jes  dat  er  way  and  put  inter 
de  feed-trough  fer  a  Christmas  gif  hisself?  Dat's  true, 
too,  Aunt  Compy.  I  seed  it  my  own  self — de  picter,  I 
mean — an'  dar  de  little  feller  was,  a  layin'  right  dar  in 
der  feed-trough  afo'  de  oxens.  His  folks  wa'n't  rich, 
so  Miss  Sophy  says,  an'  you  knows  dat  dey  wasn't. 
Dey  wouldn't  'a'  been  a  livin'  in  de  stable  ef  dey  hed 
been,  would  dey,  now,  Aunt  Compy?  Dey  wa'n't  rich, 
an'  Santa  Claus  brung  dem  a  Christmas  gif,  so  now." 

"  Sakes  alive,  you's  a  quare  gal.  D'ye  know  who  dat 
baby  was,  honey?" 


WANTED— A    STOCKING.  473 

"  Miss  Sophy  sed  'twas  de  Holy  Baby,"  answered 
'Zouri  composedly. 

"  Why,  dat  was  Jesus  Christ,  honey — the  Lor'  Jesus 
Christ.     Didn't  yer  nebber  h'yer  tell  'bout  him,  chile?" 

"No,"  said  the  child,  wondering  at  the  woman's  sud- 
den earnestness,  "  nobody  but  Miss  Sophy,  an'  she  sed 
'twas  a  Christmas  gif — de  fust  one  ennybody  ever 
hed — an'  dat  Marse  Santy  Clause  brung  it  to  his  pa  an' 
ma  'cause  dey  was  good  folks  dough  dey  was  pore." 

"  Chile,  chile  !  How  you  does  talk,"  said  the  woman 
chidingly.  "Hush  yer  mouf  now,  an'  go  an'  tak  keer 
o'  dem  frowsicatin'  chillen.  Whar  you  s'pose  dey've 
done  gone  while  we's  been  a  confabulatin'  here .?" 

The  woman  was  about  to  turn  bustling  to  her  work 
but  the  child  still  persisted,  and  her  voice,  burdened 
with  coming  tears,  was  tender  and  pleading  enough  as  she 
laid  hold  of  the  woman's  dress  and  said  : 

"But  don't  Santy  bring  t'ings  to  good  chillen.'*" 

"  In  course  he  does,  honey  ?  Dar,  dar,  chile,  run 
away  now,"  said  the  w^oman  soothingly. 

"But,  Aunt  Compy,"  persisted  the  now  tearful  child, 
"h'ain't  I  ben  a  good  gal.?  Oh,  Auntie,  I'se  tried,  yer 
don't  know  how  hard  I's  tried,  to  be  good!" 

"  Dar,  dar  !  run  away,  chile  !"  said  the  woman  kindly. 
"  You  shuah  hez  been  a  good  little  gal  alius.  Run  away 
now,  an'  yer  Aunt  Compy'll  'sider  on't,  chile." 

With  a  look  that  told  the  thanks  she  did  not  know 
how  to  speak,  the  child  ran  lightly  out  of  the  house  and 
down  the  pathway  to  where  "  dem  frowsicatin'  chillen" 
were  playing  under  a  big  persimmon  tree  which  grew  at 
the  foot  of  the  garden. 


CHAPTER  II. 

MISSOURI    COMPROMISE. 

^  '^  OURI  was  ten  years  old.  She  was  not  pretty  nor 
^-^  nice.  Her  face  was  of  a  dull-brown  color,  like 
half-burnt  coffee,  and  her  head  was  clothed  with  little 
kinkled  frizzles  of  woolly  hair,  which  would  have  covered 
it  close  if  the  hairs  had  not  twined  round  each  other, 
like  the  tendrils  of  a  rank-growing  wisteria  which  had 
nothing  else  to  cling  to,  until  they  had  formed  funny 
little  knots  between  which  the  brown  skin  showed  in 
patches  from  nape  to  brow.  Her  face  was  not  round 
and  fat,  as  children  of  her  race  are  usually  pictured,  but 
sallow  and  peaked,  though  the  nose  was  short  and  the 
end  of  it  seemed  to  be  trying  to  cross  the  incurving 
bridge  and  get  upon  the  round,  smooth  forehead  above. 
There  were  only  two  pretty  things  about  her  counten- 
ance :  a  pair  of  great  brown,  dreamy,  half-wild  eyes,  and 
teeth  which  showed  under  the  thick,  red  lips  like  star  of 
Bethlehem  lilies  in  a  bed  of  black  tulips.  She  was 
straight  as  an  arrow.  She  had  toted  water  from  the 
spring  down  by  the  branch,  a  hundred  yards  away  from 
the  house,  balancing  upon  her  head  the  full  bucket  with 
the  gourd  floating  on  the  top,  almost  ever  since  she  was 
big  enough  to  follow  the  pathway  to  and  fro;  and  it  had 
made  her  erect  and  strong. 

Her  wardrobe  was  not  elegant  nor  abundant.     One 


MISSOURI  COMPROMISE.  475 

cotton  dress,  which  had  given  out  before  the  summer  was 
over,  with  a  heavy  linsey-woolsey  one  for  winter,  which 
had  been  long  enough  when  it  was  made  a  year  before, 
constituted  all  the  garments  that  she  could  remember  to 
have  had.  Stockings  and  shoes  and  hats  and  gloves  and 
cloaks  she  had  seen,  and  wondered  dully  how  people 
could  have  them  all  and  not  die  of  happiness. 

She  was  not  nice  either.  Her  face  and  hands  had 
been  washed  sometimes,  but  the  dust  of  the  red  clay 
hills  had  made  acquaintance  with  the  sun-burnt  frizzles 
of  her  hair  months  before,  and  soap  and  water,  comb 
and  brush  had  never  disputed  the  territory  with  it.  She 
tried  to  comb  her  hair  once  with  the  card  Uncle  Peter 
used  to  reduce  his  matted  locks  to  subjection,  and  won- 
dered how  people  lived,  who  combed  their  "  har"  every 
day. 

The  thin,  flat  feet,  which  looked  so  big  for  the  long, 
slender  legs,  were  washed — every  time  it  rained. 

She  lived  in  a  house  with  one  room  and  one  door,  and 
one  wooden  shutter  which  served  the  purpose  of  a  win- 
dow. There  was  a  great  open  black-jambed  fireplace,  in 
the  corner  of  which  she  could  stand  without  stooping. 
The  stone  hearth  had  sunk  away  from  the  rough  plank 
floor,  so  that  the  chickens  and  the  kittens  could  come 
up  between,  and  one  time  a  big  moccasin  snake  on  his 
travels  in  August  had  crawled  up  and  stretched  himself 
on  the  hearth  as  if  he  had  found  the  winter  quarters  he 
was  seeking.  The  chimney  itself  was  made  of  sticks 
crossed  at  the  ends  and  daubed  with  mud.  When 
the  hearth  sunk  it  had  tipped  away  from  the  house,  and 
was  now  propped  up  with  a  fence-rail.     The  house  was 


476  'ZOURFS  CHRISTMAS. 

of  logs,  of  course.  There  was  a  table,  one  chair,  a  bench 
and  one  bed  in  the  house.  There  was  no  second  story  ; 
only  some  loose  boards  laid  upon  the  cross-logs  on  one 
side,  with  a  rough  ladder  leading  up  to  them,  made  what 
they  called  the  "  up-sta'rs."  Here  'Zouri  slept  with  one 
of  the  children  of  Aunt  Compy,  with  whom  she  lived. 
Their  bed  was  a  rude  pallet  on  the  boards,  and  they 
could  look  up  through  the  rough  shingle  roof  and  see 
the  stars  shining  down,  on  pleasant  nights,  while  on 
stormy  ones  the  wind  and  rain  sometimes  came  in  on 
them.  By  crawling  to  the  edge  they  could  look  down 
into  the  room  below  without  obstruction. 

'Zouri  was  an  orphan.  Her  Aunt  Compy  was  the 
twin  sister  of  her  mother.  They  had  been  named  by 
a  rollicking  master  in  the  old  slave  days  after  a  meas- 
ure much  talked  about  in  those  times,  the  one  "  Missouri," 
shortened  to  'Zouri,  and  the  other  "Compromise,"  which 
had  been  reduced  to  Comp  or  Compy.  Of  these  sisters 
'Zouri  had  always  been  feeble,  unable  to  do  her  tasks, 
and  had  been  accounted  of  little  value  as  a  slave. 

Light  work  about  the  cabins  and  sometimes  at  the 
master's  house,  had  fallen  to  her  lot.  She  was  not  what 
was  known  as  a  house-servant,  but  a  sort  of  favored  field- 
hand.  Compy  was,  on  the  contrary,  robust  and  sleek,  a 
very  picture  of  health  and  vigor.  She  set  great  store 
by  her  puny  sister,  and  took  from  her  shoulders  all  the 
hard  tasks  she  could  get  opportunity  to  lighten. 

During  the  war  'Zouri  had  married  (if  that  term  may 
be  used  to  designate  the  relations  between  slaves),  one  of 
the  smartest  and  brightest  of  the  house-servants.  The 
truth  is  that  they  had  assumed  that  relation  which  was 


MISSOURI  COMPROMISE.  417 

properly  designated  by  the  usual  phrase,  "  taking  up  with 
each  other."  Neither  law  nor  religion  gave  it  any  sanc- 
tion. Neither  the  parties  themselves  nor  the  rest  of  the 
world  were  bound  to  regard  it.  It  neither  conferred 
marital  right  nor  exacted  marital  duty.  It  was  simply 
that  imitation  of  the  home — that  dim  shadow  of  the 
domestic  Eden  for  which  the  slave  foolishly  yearned,  but 
which  he  might  not  enter.  It  was  the  lowest  step  of 
barbarism,  compelled,  enforced,  and  commanded  by  the 
highest  civilization.  This  husband,  of  whose  position  as 
a  house-servant  'Zouri  had  been  somewhat  vain,  had 
celebrated  his  freedom  by  an  act  of  meanness  which  was 
very  unusual  with  his  race.  When  a  law  was  enacted 
allowing  those  who  had  lived  together  as  man  and  wife 
in  the  slave  times  to  register  themselves  as  such,  and 
assume  in  fact  the  relation  they  had  before  but  simulated, 
he  refused  to  give  the  name  of  wife  to  the  feeble  woman 
whose  days  were  evidently  almost  numbered.  So  she 
was  left,  with  the  burden  of  her  failing  health  and  her 
little  child  to  care  for,  to  struggle  with  the  difficult  prob- 
lem of  existence.  She  took  up  her  burden  bravely, 
making  no  murmur,  working  when  she  could,  and  wait- 
ing patiently  for  the  end.  She  would  make  no  appeal  to 
her  sister,  because  she  felt  that  in  the  old  days  she  had, 
through  the  instigation  of  the  man  she  had  called  her 
husband,  treated  Compy  and  her  man  Pete,  a  common 
field-hand,  with  something  of  injustice.  When  the  war 
had  ended,  however,  and  the  opportunity  had  come  to 
show  his  m.anhood,  the  rough,  blundering  Peter  had 
shown  his  vast  superiority  to  the  soft  and  foppish  house- 
servant,  by  taking  Compy  to  the  court-house  and  having 


478  'ZOURVS  CHRISTMAS. 

themselves  duly  recorded  by  the  clerk  of  the  county  court 
as  husband  and  wife,  thereby  sanctioning  before  men  the 
relation  he  had  years  before  assumed  in  the  sight  of  God. 
Having  before  that  removed  to  another  portion  of  the 
country,  Compy  was  unaware  of  the  straits  to  which  her 
sister  was  reduced,  until  the  wolf  was  at  her  very  door 
and  the  fatal  cough  grew  so  deep  and  boding  that  the 
sufferer  knew  that  her  days  were  numbered. 

It  was  in  those  sad,  harsh  months  of  i866-'7,  when  so 
many  of  the  race  perished  from  want  and  exposure,  and 
many  more  would  have  perished  but  for  the  charity 
which  reached  out  its  ready  hand  from  the  cities  of  the 
conquering  North  to  save  its  sons  in  the  gloomiest  of 
these  dark  hours,  that  'Zouri's  pride  and  strength  at  last 
gave  way,  and,  taking  her  little  namesake  by  the  hand, 
she  set  out  to  take  her  to  her  sister,  in  the  hope  that  she 
would  not  forget  the  child  when  she  herself  should  die. 
It  was  not  more  than  a  day's  journey  to  one  who  was 
well  and  sturdy;  but  'Zouri  was  not  far  from  the  end, 
the  child  was  only  a  weak  toddler,  and  it  was  not  till  the 
evening  of  the  third  day  that  she  sank  down  at  the 
threshold  of  her  sister's  humble  cabin.  Compy  did  not 
refuse  the  added  burden,  nor  remember  the  scorn  which 
had  been  visited  on  her  "old  man"  by  'Zouri  and  her 
unworthy  consort  in  the  old  days.  Though  the  times 
were  bad  and  mouths  were  hard  to  fill,  both  Compy  and 
Pete  made  them  welcome  without  reproach — 'Zouri  and 
the  little  one — gave  them  their  only  bed,  and  did  all 
they  could  for  their  comfort.  It  was  not  for  long.  In 
a  month  'Zouri  passed  away,  leaving  the  puny  child  of 
two  and  a  half  years  to  the  care  of  the  sister  who  had 


MISSOURI  COMPROMISE.  479 

been  her  own  good-natured  nurse  and  support  in  her 
young  days.  The  mother's  name  was  the  child's  only 
inheritance. 

Compy  never  for  a  moment  thought  of  casting  her 
sister's  child  upon  the  county  or  having  it  bound  out, 
even  to  herself,  as  she  was  often  advised  to  do.  It  could 
share  with  her  own,  she  said;  and  with  them  it  had 
shared  from  that  day. 

So  little  'Zouri  had  grown  to  ten  years  old  in  the 
cabin  of  her  aunt ;  not  living  sumptuously,  yet  having 
almost  always  enough  of  the  coarse  fare  on  which  they 
lived — corn-bread  and  bacon,  with  the  sweet  potatoes, 
snaps,  and  cabbages  which  grew  in  the  little  truck  patch. 

Uncle  Peter  worked  for  'Squire  Hartson,  their  *'  ole 
Marse,"  who  lived  in  the  big  house  in  the  grove,  upon  the 
hills  beyond  the  river  a  mile  away.  Aunt  Compy 
worked  there  too,  sometimes  in  the  field  with  her  hus- 
band, ploughing  and  sprouting  and  hoeing  and  suc- 
coring the  tobacco,  and  sometimes  at  the  house  when 
"  Miss  Sophy"  would  send  for  her  if  there  was  a  press  of 
work  or  some  of  the  servants  were  sick.  Sometimes 
they  got  money  for  their  wages  and  sometimes  "truck;" 
he  eight  dollars  a  month,  and  she  twenty-five  cents  a 
day.  They  did  not  always  use  this  wisely ;  and  with  the 
best  of  economy  it  was  not  a  bountiful  supply  for  man 
and  wife  and  three  children,  besides  the  one  the  dead 
sister  had  left  as  her  sole  legacy.  But  they  were  not 
unhappy,  and  the  children  grew  and  rolled  and  rollicked 
about  on  the  red  hillside,  almost  unconscious  that  there 
was  a  brighter  or  fairer  spot  upon  earth, 


CHAPTER  III. 

UNCLE    PETER. 

PETER  was  black,  broad-shouldered,  low-browed, 
and  grizzled-bearded.  He  was  slow  and  dull. 
Heavy-limbed,  as  strong  as  Samson,  little  given  to 
laughter,  but  seeming  to  enjoy  others'  sports,  there  was 
yet  a  sullen  determination  about  him,  which,  united  with 
his  great  strength,  gave  him  the  reputation  of  being  "  de 
wus  man  ter  pick  a  quarrel  wid  on  de  ribber."  He  was 
a  man  of  few  words,  of  great  endurance,  and  one  who 
thoroughly  understood  the  mysteries  of  curing  tobacco. 
From  the  planting  of  the  seed-bed  to  the  burning  of  the 
coal  and  the  stripping  of  the  leaf,  there  was  not  a  step 
which  Uncle  Peter  did  not  completely  understand  and 
could  not  be  trusted  to  take  at  the  right  moment.  He 
knew  just  how  much  heat  was  required  for  each  of  the 
varying  qualities  of  leaf,  in  different  sorts  of  weather  and 
at  every  stage  of  the  curing  process,  in  order  to  produce 
the  bright,  silky,  yellow  staple  which  was  so  highly  prized 
in  the  market.  He  had,  too,  that  steady,  pertinacious 
faithfulness  which  would  watch  this  process  to  comple- 
tion without  exhaustion  or  neglect.  These  qualities,  as 
well  as  the  fact  that  Peter  was,  in  his  way,  a  very  enthu- 
siastic and  accomplished  sportsman,  had  inclined  'Squire 
Ben  Hartson  to  keep  him  in  his  employ.  So  he  made 
him  his  "  curer,"  and  gave  him  the  cabin  across  the  ford. 


< 

X 
O 


« 
)< 

^ 


O 


OS 

a 


s 
s 


UNCLE   PETER.  481 

thereby  adding  to  his  monthly  stipend  the  chance  to  earn 
a  bit,  now  and  then,  by  piloting  a  traveler  across  the 
ford,  which  in  high  water  was  both  difficult  and  danger- 
ous. One  of  the  main  public  roads  from  the  mountains 
to  the  eastward  had  crossed  the  Dan  at  this  point  for  a 
hundred  years,  and  continuous  travel  had  worn  a  deep 
gully  in  the  face  of  the  red  clay  hill,  as  it  wound  around 
the  great  honey  locust  in  front  of  Peter's  cabin,  down  to 
the  ford.  Ordinarily,  the  bright,  dashing  stream  was  not 
more  than  a  hundred  yards  in  width  where  it  broke  over 
the  granite  ledge  which  made  the  shoal  just  where  it 
turned  sheerly  northward  from  its  former  easterly  course. 
But  when  the  waterspouts  broke  in  the  mountains,  or  the 
return  "  trade-wind "  cast  the  moisture,  which  it  had 
brought  from  the  distant  x\tlantic,  against  the  forest- 
crowned  crags  of  the  Appalachian  range  for  many  days, 
then  the  wide  second  bottoms  became  a  turbid  sea,  and 
the  red,  wrathful  flood  seethed  and  hissed  with  angry 
swirl  over  the  hidden  barrier. 

A  cow  and  a  half-dozen  lean  and  hungry  shoats,  which 
ran  in  the  range  during  the  summer,  and,  with  the  cost 
of  a  little  corn  in  the  fall,  or  without  it  if  a  good  mast 
season,  would  provide  meat  for  his  family  the  better  part 
of  the  coming  year;  an  old  gun  of  doubtful  make  and 
uncertain  antiquity,  of  which  he  was  very  fond ;  an 
ancient  hound,  whose  fame  as  a  'possum-dog  was  un- 
rivaled in  the  county;  a  bench-legged  fice,  with  one 
upward-pointing  and  one  drooping  ear  and  an  estab- 
lished reputation  as  a  squirrel-dog;  and  a  formidable 
array  of  rude  fishing-tackle — these  constituted  Uncle 
Peter's  earthly  goods  and  possessions  at  the  time  of  our 


^82  'ZOURVS   CHRISTMAS. 

Story.  Ten  years  of  health  and  strength,  ten  years  of 
steady  labor — what  he  would  have  accounted  self-denial 
and  thrift — had  not  served  him  to  accumulate,  all  told,  a 
hundred  dollars  in  value.  Yet  he  had  not  done  so 
badly.  He  had  lived  fairly  well,  dressed  warmly  enough 
in  winter,  his  family  had  not  suffered,  and  he  was  not  in 
debt.  He  was,  perhaps,  a  trifle  better  off  than  the  aver- 
age of  his  fellows. 

'Squire  Ben  Hartson  was  the  owner  of  a  plantation  of 
one  thousand  acres,  which  lay  in  a  bend  of  the  Dan, 
with  the  mountains  rising  dark  and  green  to  the  west- 
ward. His  pride  had  always  been  to  be  accounted  the 
best  farmer  and  the  most  devoted  sportsman  of  the 
region.  "  To  follow  the  hounds  and  to  oversee  his  own 
plantation,"  he  was  wont  to  say,  "  are  the  especial  duties 
of  a  country  gentleman."  The  war  interfered  but  little 
with  his  life  or  prospects,  except  by  the  emancipation 
which  came  at  its  close.  Even  this  loss  was  soon  nearly 
made  good  by  his  thrifty  management  and  the  high  price 
of  his  staple  soon  after  the  war.  He  was  a  rare  specimen 
of  the  Southern  planter,  in  that  he  was  not  a  politician. 
When  his  slaves  became  freedmen,  he  hired  them  without 
fuss  or  grumbling. 

But  'Squire  Ben  Hartson  was  not  one  of  those  who 
thought  that  emancipation  had  wrought  a  miracle  in  the 
colored  man;  nor  was  he  conscious  of  one  in  himself. 
In  rude  phrase,  he  was  wont  to  say  that  the  negro  was 
free,  but  he  was  a  "  nigger"  yet.  He  did  not  "take  any 
stock"  in  constitutional  amendments  or  equal  rights.  He 
was  no  politician,  he  said,  but  he  did  not  propose  to  be 
ruled  by  "  niggers,"  on  his  plantation  nor  off  it.     He  had 


UMCLE  PETER.  483 

been  a  fair  master  in  slave  times,  feeding  well,  expecting 
and  demanding  good  work,  and  preserving  strict  disci- 
pline. He  seldom  used  the  whip,  and  never,  he  was 
wont  to  boast,  "  on  the  same  nigger  twice."  As  he  was 
fair  before,  so  he  was  just  after  emancipation.  He 
offered  good  wages,  paid  them  with  scrupulous  exact- 
ness, required  the  same  work,  exacted  the  same  defer- 
ence, and  enforced  the  same  discipline  as  in  the  old  slave 
times.  Disobedience  or  insubordination  brought  a  blow 
after  as  well  as  before;  and  though  he  paid  the  small 
fines  assessed  for  such  infractions  of  the  law,  it  was  well 
understood  that  "  Marse  Ben"  was  a  "fractious"  em- 
ployer, but  a  good  paymaster ;  which  virtue  counter- 
balanced the  vice  in  the  minds  of  his  employes;  and  he 
had  the  pick  of  the  country  in  his  service.  So  he  fol- 
lowed his  hounds  and  drove  his  farm,  cursed  and  beat 
his  hands,  was  called"  Marse,"  approached  with  fear,  and 
addressed  hat  in  hand.  Yet  his  employes  were  usually 
devoted  to  his  interests,  and,  in  fact,  rather  proud  of 
their  somewhat  imperious  and  impetuous,  but  honest  and 
kindly  employer. 

Perhaps  no  little  of  this  was  due  to  his  wife,  the  amiable 
invalid  mistress  of  the  fair  mansion  he  had  built  in  the 
centre  of  his  demesne,  on  the  top  of  a  far-seen  hill  and 
in  the  midst  of  a  stately  grove  of  ancient  oaks.  She  had 
been  unquestioned  mistress  there  from  the  hour  he 
brought  his  newly-wedded  Sophy  home  until  the  present. 
Her  weakest  wish  was  law  to  Ben  Hartson,  and  she  was 
wise  enough  never  to  ask  what  might  not  be  readily 
awarded. 

She   never   complained  of  her   husband's  somewhat 


484  'ZOURFS   CHRISTMAS. 

roystering  habits,  and  was  shrewdly  suspected  of  having 
as  much  pride  in  his  sportsmanly  achievements  as  him- 
self. Despite  the  fact  that  she  had  always  been  feeble, 
she  was  a  notable  housekeeper,  and  the  hospitality  of 
"  Content"  was  noted  throughout  the  country-side.  If  he 
was  impetuous,  she  was  overflowing  with  kindness; 
and  many  a  time  did  her  gentle  ministry  avert  the  trou- 
ble which  might  have  flowed  from  his  too  hasty  blows  or 
abusive  words.  Yet  she  was  as  rigid  a  disciplinarian  as 
he,  and  had  never  been  known  to  utter  a  disapproving 
word  as  to  any  of  his  acts.  She  was  worshiped  as  gen- 
erally as  he  was  feared.  Their  youngest  child  and  only 
son,  the  "  Marse  Ferdie"  spoken  of  by  little  'Zouri,  a 
golden-haired  boy  of  six,  was  the  only  source  of  disa- 
greement that  had  ever  come  into  the  household.  Ben 
was  afraid  the  boy  would  have  his  mother's  gentle  ways, 
and  never  choose  to  follow  the  dogs  or  rule  the  planta- 
tion with  a  rod  of  iron.  Softness  was  all  right  in  a 
woman,  but  he  would  rather  have  laid  the  boy  in  his 
grave  than  look  forward  to  his  being  anything  else  than 
the  rough-rider  and  hard-hitter  he  was  himself.  For 
her,  she  so  loved  the  gentle,  sweet-faced  child,  that  she 
could  not  think  of  his  becoming  like  the  brown-bearded 
giant  whom  she  loved  so  well  as  her  husband.  It  seemed 
to  involve  a  change  of  personality  which  she  shuddered 
to  contemplate.  The  mistress  was  rarely  able  to  go 
abroad,  and  was  much  of  the  time  confined  to  her  own 
room ,  but  even  from  her  invalid  couch  her  eye  was  upon 
every  movement  of  the  household.  So  that,  on  the  whole, 
"  Content"  was  regarded  as  a  model  establishment. 
Peter  and  "Marse  Ben" had  got  along  with  each  other 


UNCLE  PETER.  485 

very  well  year  after  year.  The  one  did  his  tasks  without 
words ;  and  the  other  had  used  some  self-restraint 
towards  him  because  he  knew  Pete's  temper  and  neither 
desired  to  provoke  a  conflict  nor  to  lose  his  services. 
Occasionally  Peter  had  been  allowed  to  go  with  "  Marse 
Ben"  on  a  hunt  instead  of  his  regular  waiting-boy,  and 
not  unfrequently  "  Marse  Ben"  had  joined  his  employe 
in  a  "  fishing  frolic"  on  the  river,  with  the  deeps  and 
shallows  and  the  habits  of  the  finny  population  of  which 
he  knew  more  than  any  dweller  on  its  banks  for  many 
a  mile.  Neither  were  men  of  words;  but  by  virtue  of 
similarity  of  tastes  there  had  grown  up  a  sort  of  silent 
sympathy,  which,  while  it  did  nothing  to  lessen  the  dis- 
tance between  them  gave  to  each  a  respect  for  the  other 
which  rarely  attends  the  relation  they  sustained. 

"  Marse  Ben"  had  once  testified  in  the  court-house 
with  some  vehemence  that  Peter,  who  was  a  witness  in 
an  action,  had  "  as  good  a  character  as  any  nigger  could 
have."  This  would  not  seem  to  be  much  from  some 
men,  but  it  was  going  a  great  way  for  Ben  Hartson. 

This  fact  had  not  escaped  the  watchful  attention  of  the 
invalid  wife ;  and,  anxious  always  to  advance  her  husband's 
interest  as  well  as  his  pleasure,  she  had  investigated  the 
fordman's  wife  and  family,  and  had  taken  pains  to  aid 
them,  by  employing  Compy  to  do  such  work  as  she  was 
fitted  to  perform  about  "the  great  house,"  whenever  the 
force  of  servants  there  regularly  employed  proved  insuf- 
ficient for  her  need.  Thus  it  was  that  Peter,  the  ford- 
man,  and  Compy,  his  wife,  came  to  regard  themselves, 
and  were  by  others  regarded,  as  in  a  sense  favorites  of 
the  master  and  mistress  of  Content. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


THE    FORDMAN's  GIFT. 


PETER  the  younger,  and  Bunk  and  Dot  were  the 
names  of  the  children  who  were  at  once  the 
charge  and  associates  of  'Zouri.  Their  ages  were  seven, 
five  and  three  respectively.  They  were  fat,  black  and 
dirty.  One  garment  apiece  constituted  their  wardrobe, 
which  was  seldom  washed  and  still  less  frequently 
renewed.  The  elder,  and  namesake  of  the  father,  had 
been  promoted  to  the  dignity  of  trousers  a  few  months 
previous,  but  they  were  as  yet  held  to  be  fit  and  proper 
for  state  occasions  only.  Three  healthier  or  more 
rugged  and  turbulent  young  Africo-Americans  never 
rollicked  about  a  cabin  or  roamed  over  an  old  field,  than 
these.  None  ever  more  naturally  gave  an  almost  infan- 
tile nurse  an  infinite  amount  of  trouble.  During  the 
summer  that  had  just  passed  'Zouri  had  been  promoted 
from  the  care  of  the  children  alone  to  be  a  sort  of  de- 
puty housekeeper  in  Uncle  Peter's  cabin.  To  her  had 
long  been  committed  the  care  of  the  premises  and  of  the 
children  during  the  absence  of  Aunt  Compy,  and  the 
care  thus  thrown  upon  her  had  given  an  old  and  ma- 
tured look  to  her  young  face  ;  but  not  until  during  the 
past  summer  had  she  ever  been  elevated  to  the  dignity  of 
preparing  a  meal  for  the  head  of  the  household.  At  that 
time,  however,  Mrs.  Hartson  was  under  the  necessity  of 


THE  FORDMAN'S  GIFT.  487 

obtaining  an  extra  servant  during  an  illness  and  could 
think  of  no  one  who  would  so  well  serve  her  purpose  as 
the  strong,  cheerful  and  healthy  Aunt  Compy.  This  de- 
mand required  her  absence  not  only  during  the  day 
but  often  at  night  also,  and  during  her  absence  the  little 
child  of  her  dead  sister  was  installed  as  mistress  of 
Uncle   Peter's  cabin. 

It  was  not  a  very  onerous  task,  it  is  true.  She  had 
only  to  make  coffee  and  corn-bread  and  fry  the  bacon 
for  breakfast,  and  do  the  same  for  dinner  and  supper. 
It  chanced,  however,  to  be  an  occasion  when  Peter  was 
not  very  closely  occupied,  and  for  the  first  time  he 
seemed  to  have  noticed  particularly  the  "  little  gal "  who 
had  been  one  of  his  family  for  years.  He  had  never 
been  unkind  to  her.  Indeed,  he  might  well  have  said 
that  he  had  made  no  difference  between  her  and  his 
own  children.  It  was  true.  He  had  paid  little  atten- 
tion to  any  of  them.  If  they  were  sick,  Compy  nursed 
them  all  alike;  he  did  not  concern  himself  in  regard  to 
them.  If  they  were  well,  they  ate  and  frolicked  about, 
and  he  regarded  them  with  complacence,  as  he  did  his 
dogs  and  his  pigs. 

Sometimes  he  spoke  sharply  to  them,  sometimes  took 
them  with  him  on  fishing  expeditions,  and  now  and  then 
upon  his  return  from  occasional  trips  to  the  court-house 
brought  them  some  little  treat.  He  was  a  man  of  few 
words  at  best,  and  of  those  few,  only  the  briefest  and 
lightest  were  wasted  upon  the  children.  When  left 
alone  with  little  'Zouri  for  a  housekeeper,  he  had  fully 
expected  to  have  added  to  his  daily  labors  the  cooking 
of  his  own  food  and  that  of  the  children ;  a  task  which 

30 


488  'ZOURVS  CHRISTMAS. 

he  was  fully  competent  to  perform,  being,  as  is  not  un- 
frequently  the  case  with  the  freedman,  a  much  better 
cook  than  his  wife,  but  one  which  he  would  never  con- 
descend to  assist  in  during  his  wife's  presence,  lest  the 
due  tone  of  domestic  discipline  should  be  relaxed. 

When  upon  his  return  from  labor  on  the  first  day 
after  the  departure  of  his  wife  he  found  the  midday 
meal  awaiting  him,  he  was  so  surprised  that  he  could 
not  refrain  from  saying,  as  he  sat    down   to    discuss  it : 

"  Wal,  I  declar,  'Zouri,  you's  getting  to  be  a  right 
peart  gal." 

After  dinner  he  had  visited  his  hooks,  and,  finding  a 
large  fish  upon  one  of  them,  he  had  brought  it  to  the 
house,  and  after  cleaning  it  and  stufiing  it  with  some 
cold  bread  and  pieces  of  bacon  had  encased  it  in  a  mor- 
tar made  of  stiff  white  pipe-clay,  which  cropped  out  on 
the  hillside  just  below  the  house,  in  which  he  pierced  a 
few  holes  with  a  broom-straw,  and  burying  it  beneath  the 
ashes,  directed  'Zouri  to  keep  a  slow  fire  burning  over  it, 
and  promised  that  when  he  came  home  they  would  have 
a  treat,  and  that  if  it  was  well  done  she  might  take  the 
"  favorite  bit  over  to  de  missus.  P'raps  it  might  chirk 
her  up  a  little,"  he  said,  "  ter  taste  a  bite  ob  sech  a  fish  ez 
dat,  cooked  ez  it  orter  be." 

That  evening  he  returned  from  his  work  early, 
and  said,  as  he  washed  his  hands  and  rolled  up  his 
sleeves : 

"  I  tole  Mars  Ben  I  was  gwine  to  send  over  a  piece  ob 
red-hoss  baked  in  der  ash-heap  for  de  missus,  an'  he 
said  he  was  glad  on't.  So  he  let  me  outen  de  crap 
'bout  an  hour  earlier  dan  common.     I  specs  de  ole  ras- 


THE   FORDMAN'S   GIFT.  489 

cal  calkerlate  ter  get  a  bite  on't  hisself.  He  knows  what 
a  good  fish  is  like  when  Uncle  Peter's  cooked  it.  He's 
tried  it  manv  a  time  afo'  now." 

He  removed  the  great  fish  carefully  from  its  bed  in 
the  hot  embers,  and  found  that  its  case  of  wet  clay, 
hardened  by  the  heat,  had  been  transformed  into  a 
rough  earthenware  shell.  From  the  interstices  in  which 
the  broom-straws  had  been  stuck  now  rose  a  fragrant 
steam.  He  rolled  it  out  upon  the  hearth,  carefully 
brushed  the  ashes  from  it  with  the  hearth-broom,  tapped 
it  here  and  there  with  the  handle  of  the  knife  he  held  in 
his  hand,  and  announced  his  satisfaction  at  the  result  in 
unmeasured  terms. 

"Ah,  dat's  it,  'Zouri.  D'clar,  chile,  I  b'leve  you's 
gwine  ter  be  a  born  cook,  shore  'nuff.  Now,  I  knows 
dat  red-hoss  am  done  jes'  right — knows  it  jest  ez  well, 
chile,  ez  ef  I  done  eat  a  piece  on't.  He  ain't  burnt 
nuther.  D'ye  h'yer  dat,  now.?"  He  struck  the  case  as 
he  spoke  and  a  lo^v  metallic  sound  followed.  "  Now, 
yer  see,  chile,  dat  ar  red-hoss  hev  jest  swelled  up  an' 
filled  dis  yer  shell  full  ob  soft,  white,  steamin'  meat,  dat 
is  ez  juicy  an'  sweet  ez  ef  it  hed  been  cooked  in  honey. 
Now,  ef  it  hed  sounded  sharp  an  ci'ar  I'd  'a  'know'd  you'd 
hed  on  too  much  fire  an'  burnt  it  to  a  cinder;  an'  ef  it 
hed  been  dull  an'  dead-like  I'd  'a  'know'd  de  mud  wa'n't 
fully  sot  on  de  inside,  an'  so,  ob  co'se,  de  fish  wa'n't 
done.  'Taint  everybody  ez  kin  keep  up  jes  percisely 
de  right  so't  ob  a  fire  fer  bakin'  in  de  ashes.  Now,  you's 
hit  percisely  de  korrect  thing,  chile.  It  wants  a  stiddy 
fire — not  hot  ez  blazes  fer  a  spell  an'  den  cold,  but  jes'  a 
reg'lar,  mod'rate,  stiddy  heat  all  der   time.     An'  den  it 


490  'ZOURI'S  CHRISTMAS. 

wants  ter  be  kep'  up  till  ye're  ready  ter  eat  the  fish,  afore 
yer  break  der  shell,  'coz  a  fish  ain*t  no  'count,  so  far  ez 
de  taste  goes,  'less  yer  eats  it  hot." 

Then  he  carefully  cut  the  fish  across,  taking  especial 
pains  not  to  crack  or  shatter  the  hard  clay  case,  but  cut- 
ting it  smoothly  and  squarely  off.  An  inspection  of  the 
contents  of  the  rude  shell  fully  justified  his  anticipa- 
tions, which  were  further  approved  by  the  exquisite 
odor  which  floated  through  the  hut  as  the  delicately 
cooked  meat  was  exposed. 

"  Now,  honey,  I  shows  yer  how  ter  tote  a  baked  fish  a 
mile  an'  hev  it  jes  ez  fresh  an'  hot  ez  ef  de  fire  hed  jest 
been  raked  offen  him.  Han'  me  one  ob  dem  hot  corn 
pones,  honey.  You's  made  'em  beautiful,  dat's  a  fac' — 
crust  jest  ez  thick,  an'  hard,  an'  brown  ez  a  chinquepin  nut 
— de  rale  ole  Virginny  bake-oven  pone.  None  ob  yer 
hoe-cake  slosh  dar.  Yer  got  dat  ob  yer  Aunt  Compy. 
She  sartin  do  make  de  mos'  satisfyin'  an'  substanshuel 
corn-pones  dat  ebber  a  hungry  man  sot  a  tooth  in." 

Taking  the  pone  he  divided  the  upper  crust  from  the 
lower  and  laid  one  half  of  it  carefully  over  the  severed 
end  of  the  "favorite"  part  of  the  fish,  which  was,  of 
course,  the  tail.  It  fitted  neatly,  and  made  a  close  hot 
cover  to  the  clay  case  in  which  half  of  the  roasted  fish 
was  resting.  Then  wrapping  it  carefully  in  a  clean  table- 
cloth which  'Zouri  produced  for  the  purpose,  he  handed 
it  to  the  child,  saying  : 

"  Dar  now,  honey,  run  'long  ober  to  the  great  house  an' 
take  dis  in  to  de  missis,  yeself.  Doan  yer  let  none  o' 
dem  fool  niggahs  dat's  hangin'  roun'  dar  'suade  ye  ter 
let  'em  tech  it.     Don't  be  'fraid   o'  none  ob  'em,  honev. 


THE  FORDMAN'S  GIFT,  491 

Jes'  you  goes  'long,  brave  ez  a  lion,  an  ef  enny  one  axes 
ye  any  questions  'bout  what  ye  got  dar,  'er  what  yer 
gwine  ter  do  wid  it,  you  jes'  speak  up  ez  chirk  ez  yer 
please  an  tell  'em  you's  got  a  present  for  de  missus,  what 
Uncle  Peter  sent  to  her,  an'  yer  ain't  gwine  ter  give  it  inter 
nobody's  han's  on'y  her  own  bressed  lily-fingered  ones. 
D'ye  h'yer,  chile  ?  ' 

"  Sartin,  Uncle  Peter,"  said  the  child,  taking  the  swath- 
ed fish  in  her  arms  as  if  it  were  a  baby,  which  in  truth  it 
did  not  a  little  resemble,  in  its  white  linen  wrappings,  and 
starting  in  trembling  delight  to  do  her  errand.  At  the 
threshold  she  turned,  however,  and  inquired:  "  Oh  !  Uncle 
Peter,  spose  Marse  Ben  hisse'f  comes  an'  axes  me  for  it,  or 
Aunt  Compy,  what  shall  I  do  .?     Let  'em  hev'  it,  I  reckon." 

"  Yer  reckon  so,  duz  yer  .?"  answered  Peter  in  an  awful 
voice.  "  See  here,  chile,  whar's  my  hat  ?  I  may  jes  ez 
well  go  an'  take  dat  bite  o'  fish  ober  ter  de  missus  myself. 
Dar  yer  gwine  ter  go  an'  gib  dat  ar  red-hoss  ter  Marse  Ben  ! 
Bless  my  soul,  chile,  de  missus  nebber  git  a  mouf-ful  on't 
— nebber.  I  kno'  Marse  Ben.  He  jes  lift  up  dat  piece 
of  corn-pone  on  de  end,  jes  ter  smell  on't  like,  an'  'fore 
yer  knows  Jack  from  Gill  dat  ar  bit  of  mud-shell's  ez 
empty  ez  a  last  year's  buzzard  nest." 

"  But  Aunt  Compy  V  said  the  child,  satisfied  as  to  Mr. 
Hartson,  and  already  clasping  the  fish  with  stubborn 
determination. 

"Aunt  Compy!"  said  Peter  with  a  fine  scorn.  "Bless 
yer  life,  don't  yer  know  how  keerless  dat  gal  is  1  like  ez 
not  she  jis  set  dat  hot  mossel  down  somewhars,  anforgits 
all  'bout  it  till  de  day  atter  to-morrow  !  Oh,  I  goes  an' 
takes  it  myself. 


402  'ZOURVS   CHRISTMAS. 

"  No  no  !"  shrieked  'Zouri,  as  she  sprang  out  of  the 
door,  "please  don't,  Uncle  Peter,  I'll  do  it  all  right- 
shuah!  I  will." 

**Wal,  den,  ef  yer  tinks  yer  ken  'bey  orders  an'  do's  I 
tell  yer,  I  haint  no  'jection,"  said  Peter  gravely.  "  But 
now  'member;  dont  yer  let  none  of 'em  fool  yer!  Yer 
jes  go  right  up  ter  de  fron'  doah  an  ax  de  way  ter  Miss 
Sophy's  room,  an'  don't  yer  take  no  answer  contrary-wise 
from  nobody !  Yer  h'yer  dat  now,  an'  ef  yer  don'  mine 
yer'll  hev  ter  settle  wid  Uncle   Peter.     Mine  dat  now." 

"Ob  co'se,  ob  co'se,"  said  the  child,  edging  rapidly 
away,  and  beginning  to  descend  the  hill  towards  the  river, 
along  which  for  a  mile  on  either  side  stretched  'Squire 
Hartson's  plantation.     Peter  called  after  her  again. 

"Yer  mus'  be  mighty  kerful  crossin'  de  fo'd,  chile. 
Look  sharp  whar  yer  set  yer  feet  on  de  foot-log.  It's  a 
mighty  hard  ting  ter  kerry  a  dead  fish  'cross  a  runnin' 
stream — almost  sure  ter  stumble  ef  yer  don't  watch  out. 
Now  be  spry,  gal.  We'll  wait  der  suppah  till  yer  comes 
an'  hev  one  yer'll  dream  'bout  den.  Mind  now,  honey, 
watch  out  and  step  quick." 

Considering  that  the  nearest  approach  to  Miss  Sophy's 
room,  or  any  other  room  in  the  residence  of  Mr.  Hartson, 
which  Uncle  Peter  had  ever  made  was  to  go  hat  in  hand 
to  the  steps  of  the  back  piazza  and  there  ask  to  see  "  Marse 
Ben,"  and  wait  humbly  until  that  individual  presented 
himself,  his  directions  to  the  child  smacked  somewhat  of 
bravado.  The  good  Peter  labored  under  a  desire  to  be 
thought  a  hero  by  his  children,  being  confident,  no  doubt 
that  there  was  no  one  else  likely  to  be  of  that  opinion. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IMPUDENCE. 

AN  idle  housemaid  saw  with  amazement  an  uncouth 
little  "  nigger  gal  "  coming  boldly  along  the  ave- 
nue of  oaks  which  led  from  the  front  gate,  a  hundred 
yards  away,  up  the  gentle  eminence  on  which  stood  the 
substantial  brick  mansion  built  by  Ben  Hartson  for  the 
reception  of  his  bride,  and  on  her  arrival  christened,  with 
much  rejoicing,  Content — a  name  which  it  had  well  justi- 
fied in  the  owners'  lives. 

It  was  a  piece  of  unwonted  impudence  for  a  colored 
person  to  approach  the  house  from  this  direction,  and 
the  housemaid  wondered  as  the  child  drew  near  "  whar 
dat  gal  could  hev  ben  raised.  None  ob  Marse  Ben's 
niggers  nebber  do  dat." 

As  'Zouri  drew  nearer,  and  manifested  an  intention  to 
mount  the  steps  and  enter  the  front  door,  the  astonished 
Abigail  could  restrain  her  wrath  no  longer.  Rushing  out 
she  met  her  at  the  top  of  the  steps  with  a  push,  and  the 
words, 

"What  in  de  name  ob  gracious  yer  doin'  here,  chile.'* 
Hain't  yer  got  no  mo'  sense  than  ter  be  walkin'  right 
inter  white  folk's  houses  dat  er  way.?" 

"  I'se  got  somfin'  fer  Miss  Sophy,"  said  'Zouri,  stoutly, 
no  doubt  expecting  that  to  be  an  "  open  sesame." 

"Yer  has.?  Wal,  take  it  roun'  to  der  kitchen,  den,  an' 
gib  it  ter  de  cook,"  was  the  reply. 


4U4:  ZOUKrs  CHRISTMAS. 

*'  Gib  it  ter  de  cook  ?"  said  'Zouri  in  amazement.  "  1 
shan't  do  no  sech  thing,  an'  yer  needn't  try  ter  'suade  me 
ter,  neither.  I'se  got  somfin'  fer  Miss  Sophy  ez  I  don't 
'low  ter  give  ter  nobody  else." 

"  What  is't  yer  got  ?"  asked  the  girl  with  some  curiosity. 

"  Dat's  no  matter  o'  yourn,"  said  'Zouri,  drawing  back. 
"  It's  fer  Miss  Sophy,  an'  Marse  Ben  wants  her  terhev  it, 
too ;  so  yer'd  better  let  me  come  in." 

"  Sakes  alive!"  said   the  maid.     "P'r'aps   yer   spects 

yer's  gwine  right  in  ter  Miss  Sophy's  room,  yerself,  lookin 

ez  yer  do." 

"  I's  got  ter  give  dis  yer  to  Miss  Sophy,"  persisted 
'Zouri. 

"Yer  don't  know  what  yer's  talkin'  about,  chile,"  said 
the  girl  good-naturedly.  And  then  added  as  she  reached 
out  her  hand,  "  Here  gib  me  dat  bundle  an'  I'll  take  it  to 
de  missus,  an'  you  jes'  run  roun'  to  de  kitchen  an'  wait 
for  the  word  she'll  send  yer." 

"  I  sha'n't  do  it,"  said  'Zouri,  firmly.  Her  heart  was 
beating  wildly,  as  it  had  done  every  moment  since  she 
started  on  her  errand,  but  she  remembered  the  injunction 
of  Uncle  Peter  not  to  let  "  any  of  dem  niggers  impose  on 
her,"  and  she  stoutly  adhered  to  her  marching  orders. 
"  I  sha'n't  do  it ;  an'  yer  better  let  me  in,  too,  coz  ef  yer ' 
don't  Marse  Ben '11  be  mad,  so  he  will." 

She  manifested  signs  of  coming  sulkiness,  and  the 
woman  saw  that  neither  command  nor  persuasion  would 
avail  to  induce  her  to  surrender  the  parcel ;  and  her  duty 
as  a  faithful  maid  was  evidently  to  get  her  away  from 
this  place  before  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  came  out  from 
supper.     This,  however,  was  no  easy  task. 


IMPUDENCE,  495 

"  Yer'd  better  let  me  alone,"  said  the  wiry  young  sav- 
age, as  she  jerked  away  from  a  grasp  intended  to  effect 
her  quiet  removal.  "  Yer'd  better  let  me  'lone  er  I'll 
holler,  gal.  I  reckon  'twould  scar  ye  ef  I  should  try. 
I'd  wake  ebery  dog  on  der  plantation  de  bery  fust  whack. 
I'll  bet  ole  Marster  'an  Missus  'ud  tink  a  succus  full  ob 
wile  cats  hed  bruk  loose,  ef  I  should  try." 

Of  all  things  the  girl  wished  to  avoid  an  outcry. 
'Zouri  saw  her  advantage  in  the  maid's  indecision. 

"  La  sakes  !"  said  the  maid,  '*  what  a  horrid  little  nigger 
you  is!" 

"Who's  dat  you  call  nigger.?"  said  'Zouri,  now  thor- 
oughly angry.  "Yer'd  better  not,  kase  I'll  holler  ef  yer 
does.  I'll  holler  ter  Miss  Sophy,  I'll  holler  murder 
an' — an'  fire;  dat's  what  I  will." 

"  Dont  yer  nebber  do  it,"  said  the  servant  excitedly, 
"  Don't  yer  know  yer'd  kill  the  missus,  shuah,  ef  yer 
did.?  She's  fearder  o'  fire  nor  a  rattle-snake  ob  ash-bark. 
Don't  you  begin  ter  do  dat  er  way,  chile.  Who  is  yer, 
anyhow .?  Whose  yer  mammy,  gal .?" 

"  Hain't  got  none,"  said  'Zouri  sullenly,  "  ner  no  daddy 
either.     I's  'Zouri." 

"  'Zouri  who .?"  asked  the  servant. 

"  'Zouri  nobody  ;  jes  Aunt  Comp's  'Zouri." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  'members  now,  you's  her  sister's  gal  what's 
dead.  All  right,  honey,  I'll  send  her  ter  see  ef  she  can't 
make  yer  'have  yerself." 

The  girl  went  into  the  hall,  and  'Zouri  had  a  strong 
notion  to  follow,  but  her  heart  failed  her.  In  a  moment 
Aunt  Compy  came  out  and  said  : 

"  Why  'Zouri,  what's  dis  Liza's  been  a  tellin'  'bout  yer  ? 


496  'ZOURrS   CHRISTMAS. 

What  yer  here  fer, anyhow?  Don't  yer  know  yer  mustn't 
never  come  to  de  front  do'ah  ob  white  folks'  houses  ?" 

"  Uncle  Peter  shuah  tole  me  I  mus'  come  ter  de  fron' 
doah',  an'  not  ter  gib  dis  yer  ter  nobody  'ceptin  Miss 
Sophy,"  whimpered  'Zouri,  "an',"  she  added  more 
firmly,  "  I'se  gwine  ter  do  it  too." 

"  Sho !  Sho!  'Zouri!"  said  Compy  in  good-natured 
protestation?  "you  rnusn't  take  on  so  honey?  nobody's 
gwine  ter  hurt  ye,  chile.     What's  dat  yer  got,  anyhow?" 

"  It's  sumfin'  fer  Miss  Sophy,"  was  the  sobbing  but 
sullen  reply. 

"  Wal,  let  me  hev  it,  honey,  an'  you  goes  roun'  ter  de 
kitchen  an'  I  comes  presently  an'  bring  yer  something 
nice. 

"  No  yer  don't,"  said  'Zouri,  jumping  backways  as 
Compy  advanced  towards  her. 

She  had  forgotten  that  she  was  standing  on  the  porch, 
and  missing  her  footing  she  fell  backwards  down  the  whole 
flight  of  steps — a  miscellaneous  assortment  of  big  feet, 
slender  legs,  scared  eyes  and  knotty  head,  according  to 
the  end  which  chanced  to  be  uppermost  during  her  re- 
treat. Her  nerves,  already  strung  to  their  highest  tension, 
gave  way  as  she  found  herself  falling,  and  she  showed  how 
she  could  "  holler"  without  the  trouble  of  an  effort.  The 
effects  of  the  exhibition  were  hardly  inferior  to  what  she 
had  predicted.  Mr.  Hartson,  always  on  the  watch  for 
anything  that  might  disturb  his  wife  during  her  seasons 
of  nervous  prostration,  hurried  from  the  supper  table  to 
her  room,  spoke  a  few  reassuring  words,  and  then  passed 
on  to  the  porch.  By  that  time  several  of  his  guests  were 
there.     Aunt  Compy  was  on  her  knees  trying  to  hush 


IMPUDENCE.  497 

the  excited  child,  who  was  now  repeating,  hysteri- 
cally : 

"  I  wants  ter  see  Miss  Sophy  !  I  wants  ter  see  Miss 
Sophy  !  "  over  and  over  again,  in  a  tone  which  must  have 
been  audible  at  the  cabin  from  which  she  came  but  for 
the  dash  and  ripple  of  the  intervening  river.  She  was 
still  clasping  her  precious  burden  to  her  breast  with  both 
hands,  which  had  not  once  been  lifted  to  save  herself 
during  the  fall,  so  great  was  her  appreciation  of  the  trust 
committed  to  her  care. 

"  Hush  your  mouth!"  said  the  master,  imperiously, 
as  he  came  forward,  and,  putting  his  hand  on  her 
head,  gave  it  a  twist  which  seemed  to  have  the  effect 
of  shutting  off  the  torrent  of  sound.  ''What  are  you 
making  all  this  row  about  ?" 

^'  I  wants  ter  see  Miss  Sophy,"  w^himpered  'Zouri. 

"We  ought  to  know  that  by  this  time,"  said  Hart- 
son,  with  an  amused  smile.  "We  hain't  heard  any- 
thing: else  lately." 

The  guests  laughed  pleasantly,  and  the  servants, 
who  had  now  collected,  snickered  doubtfully.  The 
change  from  the  horrible  to  the  ridiculous  was  so  sud- 
den, and  his  feelings  were  so  relieved  to  find  that  noth- 
ing had  occurred  which  would  be  likely  to  distress  his 
wife,  that  Mr.  Ben  Hartson  was  at  once  in  good 
humor.     Yet  he  asked,  with  some  sternness: 

"  What  do  you  want  to  see  Miss  Sophy  for  ?" 

"Kase  I'se  got  somefin'  fer  her,"  answered  the  child, 
simply. 

"  Why  don't  you  give  it  to  Compy,  then  ?  She'll 
take  it  to  Miss  Sophy,"  said  Hartson,  kindly. 


498  'ZOURrS   CHRISTMAS. 

"Aunt  Compy's  so  powerful  kerless,"  said  'Zouri, 
looking  up  earnestly,  ''dat  jes' ez  like  ez  not  she'd 
forgit  ter  give  it  ter  de  missus  till  de  week  atter  ter- 
morrer." 

Upon  this  another  ripple  of  laughter  ran  through 
the  crowd. 

"Well,  I  declare,"  said  the  master,  smiling,  "you're 
not  far  wrong  there,  child."  Then  he  added,  sooth- 
ingly, "Well,  give  it  to  me,  and  I'll  take  it  to  Miss 
Sophy  myself." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  do  dat,  Marse  Ben,"  said  the  child;  "  I 
can't  do  it  no  sort  o'  way;  I  can't — I  can't,  Marse 
Uncle  Peter  charge  me  'a'ticular  not  ter  do  dat  no- 
how; kase,  he  said,  ef  you  once  got  a  holt  ob  dat  ar 
red-hoss  yer'd  eat  him  up,  bones  and  all,  quicker'n  a 
cat  'ud  lap  sweet  milk." 

There  was  a  roaring  laugh  now,  in  which  Ben  Hart- 
son  joined  heartily. 

"Well,  I'll  be  durned,"  said  he,  "  ef  you  ain't  the 
coolest  customer  I've  had  lately." 

Just  then  his  little  boy  came  through  the  crowd  and 
said  to  him  softly: 

"  Papa,  mamma  says,  if  you  please  she  wishes  you'd 
let  her  come  in  herself." 

A  request  from  his  wife  preferred  by  the  lips  of  his 
son  was  something  that  Ben  Hartson  not  only  could 
not  refuse  but  could  not  even  hesitate  to  grant. 

"All  right,  Ferdie,"  said  he,  laughing;  "take  her  in 
to  Sophy,  and  we'll  see  if  she  can  make  anything  of 
this  young  wildcat." 

Ferdie  took  one  of  'Zouri's  hands,  which  still  clasped 


IMPUDENCE.  499 

her  precious  bundle,  and  the  half-clad  colored  child 
followed  the  fair-haired,  blue-eyed,  cherub-like  Cau- 
casian without  hesitation  up  the  steps,  across  the  porch, 
among  the  gaily-dressed  ladies,  who  moved  their 
white  robes  aside  to  let  them  pass,  into  the  stately 
hall,  across  the  soft-carpeted  sitting-room,  and  into 
the  home  sanctuary  of  the  stately  mansion,  the  mis- 
tress's own  room. 

"  I  swear,"  said  Ben  Hartson,  as  he  looked  after 
them  with  moist  eyes,  "  ain't  that  a  picture  !" 

Then  they  all  followed — first  the  master,  then  his 
guests,  and  the  servants  filing  cautiously  after  them. 
Ferdie  led  his  charge  straight  up  to  his  mother,  where 
she  sat  in  her  reclining  chair,  slender  and  pale,  dressed 
with  that  fitness  of  selection  which  marks  the  woman 
of  most  delicate  nature,  and  wearing  that  look  of  mar- 
velous composure  which  bespeaks  a  heart  chastened 
by  suffering. 

"  This  is  the  little  girl  that  cried  so,  mamma,"  said 
Ferdie. 

"What  is  your  name,  honey .^"  asked  Mrs.  Hartson, 
sweetly. 

"  'Zouri,"  was  the  mechanical  reply,  as  the  child 
stood  gazing  on  her  interlocutor  with  a  look  of  rapt 
amazement. 

"  What  made  you  cry  so  just  now,  Zouri  ?" 

"  Kase  I  wanted  ter  see  Miss  Sophy. " 

"  Well,  look  at  her,"  with  a  smile. 

"  Be  you  Miss  Sophy  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  who  did  you  think  I  was  ?" 


500  'ZOURIS   CHRISTMAS. 

"  Fout  yer  wuz  a  angel,"  said  'Zouri  earnestly. 

•*  And  weren't  far  wrong  either,"  interjected  Mr. 
Hartson  in  an  undertone. 

"  Oh!  hush,  dear,  don't  worry  the  child  any  more/' 
said  Mrs.  Hartson,  w^ith  a  faint  blush  showing  on  her 
pale  cheek.  "  What  did  you  want  of  me,  child  ?"  she 
asked. 

"Only  ter  give  yer  dis,"  said  'Zouri,  advancing  and 
laying  the  bundle  carefully  in  her  lap. 

"Better  not  open  it,  Sophy,"  said  Hartson  mischiev- 
ously. "  I've  a  presentiment  that  it's  a  baby  which 
this  young  woman  intends  to  cast  upon  your  charity 
for  support." 

There  was  a  little  ripple  of  laughter,  for  all  sounds 
were  tempered  in  the  fair  woman's  sick  chamber. 

"Oh,  don't,  husband,"  laughed  his  wife  softly,  as 
with  an  eager  curiosity  she  undid  the  numerous  folds 
until  the  fish  with  its  red-clay  case  and  Indian-pone 
cover  lay  exposed  upon  her  lap  and  the  fragrance  of 
the  yet  hot  and  delicate  morsel  floated  through  the 
room.  Then  the  sick  woman  clapped  her  hands  and 
laughed  as  she  had  not  been  khowm  to  laugh  before 
in  weeks — until  the  tears  came  flowing  over  her  softly 
flushing  cheeks. 

"It's  a  red-horse,"  she  cried;  "a  baked  red-horse!" 

Then  the  laughter  grew  contagious,  and  a  peal  rang 
around  the  sick-room  which  must  have  frightened 
away  disease. 

'Zouri  had  stood  looking  on  in  wonder,  twisting  her 
frock  with  one  hand  and  a  knot  of  her  kinky  hair  with 
the  other.     At  la?t  she  stroke,  half  indignantly: 


IMPUDENCE.  501 

" 'Co'se  it  is;  Uncle  Peter  sent  it." 

"Of  course  he  did,"  said  the  mistress,  still  laugh- 
ing. Then  she  held  it  up  for  all  the  company  to  see, 
and  after  -a  while  she  called  for  a  fork  and  a  cup  of 
tea,  and,  Pushed  and  smiling,  with  many  a  jest  and 
merry  quirk  from  her  husband  and  the  on-looking 
guests,  she  ate  Uncle  Peter's  red-horse  and  'Zouri's 
corn-pone;  and  when  she  had  finished  said  she  be- 
lieved it  would  make  her  well. 

"Don't  you  think,  mamma,  that's  wHat  God  sent  it 
for  ?"  said  little  Ferdie,  looking  up  at  his  mother,  with 
his  fair,  sweet  face  aglow. 

There  was  a  hush  fell  over  the  fair  bevy  in  the  room 
as  the  mother  clasped  her  beautiful  child  to  her  breast 
and  exclaimed,  "God  grant  it,  my  son,"  and  Ben  Hart- 
son  uttered  a  solemn  and  fervent  "Amen." 

It  was  well  after  nightfall  when  Aunt  Compy  accom- 
panied 'Zouri  to  her  home  bearing  a  heavy-laden  bas- 
ket, and  later  yet,  when  the  story  had  been  told  over 
and  over  again  and  the  unexpectedly  sumptuous  sup- 
per discussed  in  Uncle  Peter's  house.  The  event 
added  not  a  little  to  that  worthy's  self-importance,  and 
at  once  raised  'Zouri  to  an  important  rank  in  the  little 
household. 

Strangely  enough,  from  that  very  day  the  health  of 
the  Mistress  of  Content  began  to  improve,  and,  as  a 
consequence,  no  doubt,  'Zouri  became  a  prime  favorite 
there.  Marse  Ben  had  always  a  good  word  for  her, 
and  Miss  Sophy  had  more  than  once  requested  Aunt 
Compy  to  bring  her  over  to  play  with  the  little  Ferdie, 


502  'ZOURVS  CHRISTMAS. 

who  had  come  to  look  upon  her  as  the  providential 
instrument  of  his  mother's  recovery.  Aunt  Compy 
had  been  employed  at  the  great  house  a  good  part  of 
the  summer,  and  'Zouri  had  come  to  be  an  especial 
favorite  with  Uncle  Peter,  who  declared  her  to  be  "de 
peartest  little  gal  on  de  plantation,  by  all  odds." 


CHAPTER    VI. 

COMPY    'SIDERS    ON't. 

THE  conversation  with  which  our  story  opened 
had  occurred  a  little  more  than  a  week  before 
Christmas.  Aunt  Compy  had  promised  little  'Zouri 
"to  'sider  on't,"  which  she  proceeded  to  do  by  talking 
to  herself  with  no  little  vigor  of  tone  and  language,  as 
soon  as  the  child  had  left  the  hut. 

"  'Clar  ef  dat  chile  didn't  mos'  make  me  break  down 
an*  cry  right  out!  On'y  jes  think  on't  now.  Compy, 
yer's  ben  a  mitey  mean,  bad  auntie  ter  dat  ar  chile. 
What  yer  s'pose  yer  sister  'Zouri,  her  ez  de  dear  chile's 
named  atter — jes  ez  ef  hit  ed  ben  done  a  purpose  ter 
'mind  yer  on  her  ebbry  time  yer  speaks  her  name — 
what  d'yer  s'pose  she  think  on  yer  now  ?  P'raps  she's 
lookin'  down  outen  der  sky  an'  a  watchin'  yer  doins 
toward  dat  ar  gal  o'  hern;  wouldn't  be  one  bit  s'prised 
ef  she  was;  an'  what  d'yer  s'pose  now  dat  ar  delicate 
creeter  tinks  ob  her  big  strappin'  sister  what  she  lef 
her  little  gal  tu,  ter  take  keer  on  ? 

"  Yer  hev  tuk  keer  on  her  ?  Now,  yer  mean  lyin' 
huzzy,  don'  yer  tell  me  dat  when  yer  know  ef  de  deah 
ghos*  ob  yer  dead  sister  should  come  fru  dat  ar  doah 
yer  couldn't  find  a  word  ter  say  ter  it  'bout  its  little 
gal.  No,  yer  hain't  done  jes'  der  same  by  hit  ez  by 
yer  own  chillen.     Fust  place  yer's  jes'  made  it  a  nuss- 

31 


504  'ZOURPS  CHRISTMAS. 

gal  an'  a  nigger  fer  yer  own  chillen  ebcr  since  yer's 
hed  it.  Den,  yer's  shirked  an'  shifted  on  ter  dat  ar 
mite  uv  a  gal  nigh  'bout  haf  yer  oughter  done  yer 
own  black  lazy  self  !  Jes'  tink  how  yer's  let  her  bring 
water  from  dat  dar  spring,  'long  dat  slippery  side-hill 
path  whar  de  sun  shines  de  hottest  an'  de  win'  blows 
de  coldest  uv  any  place  in  der  whole  country,  while 
yer's  sot  here  in  de  shade  er  by  der  fire  doin'  nuffin* 
on  airth  only  smokin'  er  snuffin',  p'raps.  Ain't  yer 
'shamed,  yer  mean,  lazy,  good-fer-nothin'  black  huzzy!" 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  door  of  the  hut  and  looked 
down  towards  the  spring,  as  if  seeking  new  food  for 
her  self-condemnation.  If  such  was  her  purpose  she 
was  successful  in  it.  Half  way  down  the  bleak  slip- 
pery path  w^as  'Zouri  w4th  little  Dot  in  her  arms,  mak- 
ing her  way  with  difficulty  toward  the  house,  while 
Dot  was  screaming  at  the  top  of  her  voice. 

"  Look  dar,  now,"  she  continued,  as  she  proceeded 
with  her  self-castigation,  "jes'  see  how  yer's  let  her 
take  ker  o'  dem  big  fat  chillen  o'  yourn,  totin'  an' 
slavin'  for  'em  jes'  all  der  time.  'Clar'  for't  ef  she 
hain't  been  a  heap  more  mudder  to  'em  as  you  is — all 
'cept  de  bornin',  an'  dat's  a  fac.  An'  now  yer  finks  on 
it,  what  hez  yer  ever  done  fer  'em,  on'y  jes'  de  scoldin' 
an'  de  wallopin'?  Dat  'er  gal  never  done  none  o'  dat. 
I  don't  'How  she  ebber  hit  one  ob  dem  young  ones  a 
lick  in  her  life.  I  don't  b'lieve  she  ebber  scolded  'em. 
Quare,  ain't  it?  An'  now  I  gets  ter  t'ink  on't,  hit  is 
quare,  shore  'nough,  but  I  jes'  can't  'member  hearin' 
dat  ar  gal  jowerin'  at  der  chillen — no,  not  er  once. 
'Clar'  I  don't  see  how  she  gets  'long  wid  'em  'thout  it. 


COMFY  'SIDERS  ON'T.  505 

Sick  er  well,  dough,  she  takes  care  on  'em  jes'  ez  ef 
dey  wuz  her  own.  An'  yer  hain't  nebber  done  nuffin' 
for  her,  on'y  jes'  gib  her  bread  an'  meat  dat  she  more'n 
arned  ebbry  day  ob  her  life.  On'y  jes'  look  at  her 
now  !  Dat's  de  bery  bes'  dress  dat  ar  chile's  got.  An' 
no  shoes  !  'Clar'  I  don't  b'lieve  she's  ever  hed  a  par 
in  her  life,  an'  here  she  is  gwine  on  ten  years  ole.  Ef 
she's  ever  hed  a  shoe  on  her  foot  it's  been  some  old 
'uns  ob  mine;  an'  nary  bunnit,  an',  I  do  declar',  I  don't 
reckon  de  pore  chile  hez  ebber  been  ter  meetin'  'bove 
once  or  twic't  in  her  life.  Hev  a  Christmas  !  Pore 
chile,  dat  she  shel,  an'  a  good  un  too,  jes'  ez  shuah  ez 
my  name's  Comp.  I'll  speak  ter  Peter  'bout  hit,  dis 
berry  day  !  Der  ain't  no  reason  on  airth  why  we 
shouldn't  do  der  far  ting  by  'Zouri,  'specially  dis  Fall 
when  we's  had  sech  good  luck  in  de  crap,  an'  terbac- 
cer's  cured  up  ez  yaller  ez  a  hick'ry  leaf.  Here,  you, 
Dot,  git  down  outen  'Zouri's  arms  an'  come  here  ter 
me  !  What  yer  makin'  all  dat  noise  'bout,  now  ?  Hush 
up  yer  mouf  an'  tell  me  dis  minnit.  An'  you,  'Zouri, 
go  in  der  house  an'  set  down  an'  rest  yerself,  chile. 
Yer  look  ez  ef  dese  chillen  ud  war  yer  life  out." 

Compy  was  not  one  to  let  her  good  resolution  rust 
or  rot  from  disuse.  She  was  dull  and  easy,  and  it 
was  but  natural  for  her  to  forget  that  the  little  child 
whom  her  sister  had  left  to  her  care  had  been  unusu- 
ally faithful  over  the  few  things  which  constituted  the 
duties  of  her  young  life,  and  that  she  had  left  both  her 
love  and  her  gratitude  to  be  regarded  as  a  matter  of 
course  by  the  little  orphan.  When,  however,  her  atten- 
tion was  directed  to  the  fact,  and  her  somewhat  slug- 


506  'ZOURrS   CHRISTMAS. 

gish  nature  once  aroused,  there  was  no  such  thing  as 
rest  for  her  until  she  had  made  amends  for  what  she 
deemed  her  neglect.  She  at  once  determined  to  give 
the  child  a  Christmas  which  should  be  ever  memor- 
able to  her.  Shoes,  a  new  dress,  and  a  hat  of  some 
sort  were  the  least  of  the  luxuries  which  she  deter- 
mined should  gladden  the  Christmas  of  the  namesake 
of  her  dead  sister.  But  the  first  thing  was  to  prepare 
the  stockings  for  which  'Zouri  had  asked,  for  she  was 
determined  not  only  that  the  child  should  have  a 
memorable  Christmas,  but  that  she  should  have  it  in 
her  own  way;  so  that  very  evening  (which  in  the 
South  means  afternoon)  she  went  over  to  the  great 
house  and  had  a  talk  with  Miss  Sophy,  whom  she 
found  not  only  ready  to  sympathize  with  her  wishes, 
but  anxious  to  co-operate  in  her  plans.  She  had  taken 
a  peculiar  interest  in  'Zouri,  all  the  more  because  her 
little  boy  seemed  to  have  a  decided  preference  for  her 
as  a  playmate.  She  had  even  thought  of  hiring  the 
child  as  a  nurse-girl  for  him,  and  would  have  done  so, 
only  there  seemed^ to  her  housewifely  mind  no  need 
to  increase  the  force  of  servants  already  employed 
about  the  mansion.  Perhaps,  too,  there  was  something 
of  superstition  attaching  to  'Zouri  in  connection  with 
her  own  recovery. 

Compy  procured  from  the  kind  lady  the  necessary 
yarn  and  had  a  stocking  set  up  before  she  started  for 
home,  which  she  did  in  time  to  join  her  husband  on 
his  way  from  work. 

''  What  yer  gwine  ter  do  Christmas  time,  Peter  ?" 
she  asked,  as  they  strolled  along  the  road  to  the  ford. 


COMFY  'SIDERS   ON'T.  507 

"  Wal,  I  der  know,"  said  Peter.  "  Specs  I  go  down 
ter  de  Co't-house,  Christmas  Day,  an'  den  praps  hev  a 
hunt  er  two,  an'  kinder  slosh  roun'  loose  like." 

"An'spen'a  month's  wages  in  'blockade,'  I  spec, 
afore  de  week's  out,"  said  Compy,  laughing. 

"  Wal,  honey,  I  did  'low  to  hev  a  little  egg-nogg  of 
a  Christmas  Eve.  Br'er  Sam's  comin'  over  wid  his 
wife  an'  some  o'  de  nayburs  up  de  ribber  dat  we 
ain't  seen  in  a  smart  while.  Br'er  Sam's  gwine  ter 
furnish  de  eggs,  an  Jim  Black  'lowed  he'd  bring 
over  a  poun'  er  two  ob  sugar.  So  'twon't  all  be  our 
treat,  honey,"  said  Peter,  soothingly,  as  if  he  had  anti' 
cipated  dissent  on  her  part  to  the  proposed  entertain- 
ment. Compy  made  no  reply,  and  walked  along  a 
moment  in  silence.  Then  Peter  asked  somewhat 
uneasily  : 

"  What's  der  matter  wid  yer,  Compy  ?  What  yer 
lookin'  so  sober  'bout  ?" 

They  had  reached  the  ford,  and  Compy  sat  down  on 
the  end  of  the  foot-log. 

"I'se  been  t'inkin',  Peter,"  she  said,  "an  I'se  been 
ober  ter  see  Miss  Sophy,  an'  been  a  talkin'  wid  her,  an' 
it's  all  sot  me  to  t'inkin'  a  heap  mo.'  D'yer  know  how 
long  we'se  been  free?" 

"  Ebber  sence  de  surrender,  haint  we  ?"  said  Peter, 
wonderingly. 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,"  answered  Compy,  "but  how 
long's  dat  ?     How  many  year  ?" 

"  "Wal,  dar  yer  got  me  now,  honey,"  said  the  man, 
with  a  blank  smile.  "  I  nebber  could  make  head  ner 
tail  at  reraemberin'  figgers.     It  mout  be  tree  year,  an' 


508  'ZOURrS  CHRISTMAS. 

den  agin  it  mout  be  five,  for  aught  I  knows  to  de  con- 
trary." 

"  Psha  !"  said  the  woman,  impatiently,  "don't be  so 
stupid,  Peter.     It's  gwine  on  ten  year!" 

"  Yerdon' say  now  !"  said  Peter  in  surprise.  **  La, 
chile,  how  time  do  fly,  don't  it  now  ?  We's  gittin'  right 
smart  an'  ole  too.  An'  dat  accounts  now  ;  I  recolleck 
when  I  combed  my  har,  which  wuz — las'  Sunday  wuz  a 
fortnight,  I  noticed  it  war  a  gittin'  right  gray,  like." 

*"  Yes,"  said  Compy,  "  we's  a'  gittin'  ole,  an'  so's  de 
chillen." 

"  Dat's  a  fac',  honey,"  said  Peter,  vivaciously  ;  "  dar's 
dat  gal  'Zouri  is  certain  gittin'  mighty  peart  an'  handy 
like.  An'  de  boy,  Compy,  dat  ar  little  Pete,  he  ain't 
no  slouch  nigger.  D'yer  see  dat  string  o'  fish  he  catch 
todder  day  ?  Der  little  scamp,  he  foun'  whar  I'd  been 
a  baitin'  'em  agin  de  Chris'mas  week,  ef  so  be  de 
weather  should  be  open  like,  an'  he  jes'  tuk  my  bes' 
hook  an'  line  an'  went  dar  an'  cotch  a  smart  string  on 
'em  all  by  hisself.  But  what  set  yer  t'inkin'  ob  dese 
t'ings  jes'  now,  honey  ?" 

"I  wuz  jes'  a  thinkin',"  said  Compy,  *'  dat  in  all  dis 
time  we  hadn't  done  but  monstr'us  little  ter  show  we's 
glad  ob  de  freedom  we'be  hed,  er  ter  make  it  good  ter 
de  chillen." 

"  Why,  Compy,  haint  we  allers  got  long  well  'nuff  ? 
hed  enuff  ter  eat  an'  drink  an'  war — sech  as  'tis  ?" 
asked  Peter. 

"  Sartin,  sartin,"  said  Compy,  ''  an'  we's  had  strong 
ban's  ter  git  it  wid  ebbry  day.  Bress  der  good  Lor' 
der  haint  none  on  us  been  sick' — cept    little  Jim  ez 


COMPy  'SIDERS  ON'T.  509 

died  " — there  was  a  break  in  her  voice  for  an  instant, 
and  then  she  said — "but  we  haint  got  nuffin'  ahead — 
dat  is,  nuffin'  uv  any  account — an'  de  chillen  ain't  any 
better  off  dan  we  wuz  at  dar  age.  Dey  haint  got  no 
larnin'  an'  ain't  no  nearer  bein'  like  white  folk  dan  dey 
wuz  de  day  ob  de  s'render,  ez  I  ken  see." 

"  Dat's  a  fac',"  said  Peter  solemnly. 

"  Yes,  'tis  a  fac',"  said  the  woman  ;  "  an'  I  say,  hit 
oughtn't  ter  be  so  nuther,  dat  it  oughtn't." 

"  Ob  co'se,"  assented  the  man  dully. 

"  An',  I  say,  Peter,"  continued  Compy,  "  dar's 
'Zouri:  we'd  orter  do  jes'  ez  well  by  her  an'  be  jes'  as 
kerful  uv  her  ez  ef  she  wuz  our  ovv-n  gal." 

"  Ob  co'se,"  assented  Peter  with  somewhat  of  ani- 
mation ;  "I've  alius  thought  dat." 

"  But  we  hain't  done  it,  Peter  !" 

"  No  ?"  incredulously. 

"  No,  we  hain't.  Does  yer  s'posed  at  she'd  a*  been 
till  ten  year  ole  ez  she  hez  been  ef  she  wuz  our'n?  Yer 
kno'  she  wouldn't,  Peter.  I'm  not  a  blamin'  you.  Yer 
ain't  ter  blame,  ner  I  either,  only  we  nebber  thought 
nuffin'  on't." 

"  Dat's  so,"  said  her  husband  seriously. 

"  An'  it's  time  we  wuz  a  thinkin'  uv  our  own  chillen 
too." 

"  Dat's  so,  agin,"  said  Peter,  looking  admiringly  at 
his  wife. 

"  I've  been  axin  Miss  Sophy  'bout  it,"  she  continued, 
"  an'  a  axin  her  ter  tell  me  how  we's  gwine  ter  mend, 
kase  I  knowed  yer'd  be  willin'  ter  take  her  advice, 
Peter." 


610  'ZOURVS  CHRISTMAS. 

"  Dat  I  would,  honey,"  said  he;  "  she  jes  is  de  mos* 
masterful  woman  dat  ebber  drew  bref,  ef  she  is  puny- 
like." 

"  Wal,  Pete,"  Compy  never  called  her  husband  Pete, 
except  when  she  wished  to  coax  him  to  her  way  of 
thinking,  "  Miss  Sophy  says  ez  how  we  jes'  kinder 
fritters  away  what  we  make,  an'  'stead  uv  makin' 
ebbry  t'ing  go  jes'  ez  fur  ez  'twill  we  don't  take  no 
sort  o'  keer  fer  things  dat's  little,  an'  first  we  know 
dey  mount  up  ter  all  we've  got,  er  a  little  mo' ;  an'  I 
bleeve  it's  so." 

"  More'n  likely  't  mout  be  so,"  said  Peter,  dubiously. 

"  She  axed  me,"  continued  Compy,  "  what  our  las' 
Chris'mas  cost  us,  an'  when  I  tole  her  I  reckoned  a 
matter  of  two  or  three  dollars,  she  kinder  laughed 
like,  an'  went  an'  got  Mars  Ben's  count  book,  an' 
what  wid  de  figgers  she  got  from  dat  an'  what  I  could 
make  out  ter  remember,  she  figgered  out  dat  we  ate, 
an'  drunk,  an'  frowed  away  in  dat  Chris'mas  week 
more'n  we'd  bofe  made  in  the  month  afore  it." 

"  Yer  don't  say  !"  ejaculated  Peter. 

"  It's  so,  shuah,"  responded  Compy. 

"  Wal,  what  yer  gwine  to  do  'bout  hit,  honey  1  Jes 
not  hab  any  Chris'mas  ?"  asked  he  dubiously. 

"  No,"  answered  Compy,  "  she  showed  me  how  we 
could  hev  a  heap  better  one  an'  not  cost  nigh  so 
much." 

"  Dar  now,  didn't  I  say  she  was  a  powerful  peart 
woman,  dat  Miss  Sophy  ?  Hit's  a  mighty  good  thing 
fer  Mars  Ben  he's  got  jes'sech  a  wife,"  said  Peter, 
philosophically. 


COMFY  'SIDERS   ON' T.  511 

"  And  dis  is  de  way  she  says  fer  to  do  it,"  said 
Compy;  "she  says  ez  how  ye're  a  great  hunter  an' 
fisher,  ez  eberybody  knows  ter  be  true,  Pete,  only  yer 
allers  gives  away  all  yer  cotches.  Yer  see  yer  could 
cotch  atwixt  now  an'  Chris'mas  Day  right  smart 
o'  nice  fish,  an'  den  yer  mout  cotch  two  or  three 
'possums  o'  nights,  an'  praps  yer  mout  bait  up  a  tur- 
key er  two  an'  shoot  'em.  An'  dis,  she  sez,  wid  de 
bacon  an'  de  meal,  an'  jes'  a  dust  ob  flour  and  a  little 
buttah  an'  sugah,  '11  jes'  be  all  we  needs  fer  a  better 
Chris'mas,  a  heap  sight,  dan  lots  ob  white  folks 
hab." 

"An'  not  a  bit  ob  'blockade,'  honey?  Is  dat  what 
yer  mean  ?"  asked  Peter. 

"Wal,"  said  Compy  meditatively,  "we  mout  hev  a 
Chris'mas  dinner,  an  ax  Br'er  Sam's  folks  an'  de 
odders  you  spoke  'bout,  an'  we  inout  hev  jes'  otie  glass 
uv  egg-nogg — jes'  kinder  fer  dessert  like.  An'  den 
you  know,  honey,  we  could  take  de  rest  ob  de  money 
an'  gib  de  chillen  a  power  of  presents  dat  dey  needs." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence.  Then  the  husband 
said  : 

"Compy,  I'll  be  dod-derned  ef  we  don't  try  dat  ar 
new  fangled  plan  ob  Miss  Sophy's.  I  couldn't  git  fru 
de  Chris'mas  widout  jes'  a  drap  o'  sperits,  but  I'll 
'low  a  good  dinner  wid  a  good  egg-nogg  arter  it'll  do 
nigh  'bout  ez  well  ez  more  sperits  an'  less  grub.  I'll 
try  it  any  way.  I  reckon  it's  right,  an'  whether  'tis  or 
no  I'm  boun'  ter  do  dat  much  jes'  to  pleasure  you, 
honey." 

It  was  said  with  a  sly  wink  and  grin,  and  Compy, 


512  'ZOURrS  CHRISTMAS. 

springing  up,  threw  her  arm  about  his  neck  and  gave 
him  a  kiss. 

"  Oh,  you  good  ole  boy  !" 

Then  they  crossed  the  foot-log  together,  and,  as 
they  went  up  the  hill,  she  told  him  of  'Zouri's  desire 
for  a  stocking  for  Christmas,  and  showed  him  the  one 
she  had  begun. 

"  So  yer  gwine  ter  have  a  reg'lar  white  folks'  Chris'- 
mas  ?"  he  added. 

"  Dat's  it,  honey,"  she  replied  ;  "  why  shouldn't  we? 
We's  free  now,  an'  drinkin',  an'  carousin',  an'  shootin' 
off  guns  ain't  der  way  we  ought  to  be  adoin'  no  mo'." 

"  Dat's  so,  honey,"  responded  he. 

From  that  hour  it  was  hard  to  say  which  was 
busiest  or  most  enthusiastic  in  preparing  for  the  new 
festival.  A  thousand  plans  were  discussed  between 
them,  and  Miss  Sophy  was  regularly  consulted  as  to 
all  of  them.  Of  the  greater  portion  of  these  'Zouri 
was  kept  in  profound  ignorance,  but  that  she  was  to 
have  a  stocking,  and  that  each  of  the  other  children 
was  to  have  one  also,  she  was  duly  informed.  There- 
upon her  imagination  ran  riot  as  to  what  "  Marse 
Santa  Glaus"  would  put  into  it.  Her  faith  was  with- 
out spot.  The  sainted  Miss  Sophy,  herself  all  but  an 
angel,  as  she  thought,  had  told  her  the  legend,  and  she 
no  more  thought  of  doubting  it  than  she  would  have 
questioned  the  revealed  and  attested  word  of  God. 
Moreover,  "  young  Marse  Ferdie"  had  told  her  one 
day,  when  she  had  accompanied  Aunt  Gompy  to  the 
mansion,  just  what  he  expected,  and  had  given  as  a 
reason  for  his  faith  that  he  had  "  asked  God  to  please 


COMFY  'SIDEKS  ON' T.  513 

send  Santa  Claus  to  bring  'em."  Among  his  expected 
presents  was  a  doll.  Though  he  was  now  six  years 
old,  he  was,  as  he  always  had  been,  very  fond  of  a  doll, 
and  his  especial  desire  was  that  Santa  Claus  should 
bring  him  a  large  girl  doll  that  could  open  its  eyes 
and  turn  its  head.  He  had  been  so  persistent  in  his 
importunity  that  one  of  his  sisters  had  finally  pro- 
mised that  she  would  ask  Santa  Claus  to  bring  it, 
with  which  promise  he  rested  content.  When  his 
father  came  to  hear  of  it,  however,  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life  Ben  Hartson  interfered  in  the  domestic 
affairs  of  his  household.  He  vowed  that  the  child 
should  have  no  more  doll-babies.  He  might  have  a 
pony,  a  dog — anything  but  a  doll.  He  was  afraid  he 
was  going  to  grow  up  a  "  milksop  sort  of  gal-boy, 
anyhow,"  and  he  wouldn't  have  it  encouraged.  It  was 
in  vain  that  his  wife  urged  that  it  had  been  promised 
the  child  ;  fhat  he  would  be  sadly  disappointed,  and 
lose  something  of  that  faith  which  is  the  brightest 
part  of  childhood.  He  swore  that  she  was  spoiling 
the  boy  ;  that  it  ought  never  to  have  been  promised 
him,  and  even  if  it  was  it  should  never  be  given  him. 
As  the  doH  had  already  been  purchased,  Mrs.  Hartson, 
finding  her  husband  quite  implacable,  could  think  of 
no  better  method  to  dispose  of  it  than  by  giving  it  to 
Compy  for  'Zouri.  Meantime,  little  Ferdie  discoursed 
with  rapture  to  'Zouri  of  the  expected  gift,  describing 
over  and  over  to  her  the  details  of  its  appearance  and 
clothing,  which  he  had  little  by  little  extracted  from 
his  sister  as  the  description  of  the  doll  she  had 
asked  Santa  Claus  to  bring  him. 


CHAPTER     VII. 

A    MISTAKE    AND    A    MISSTEP. 

IT  was  Christmas  Eve.  All  the  preparations  for  the 
morrow  had  been  made.  Uncle  Peter  had  been 
into  town  during  the  afternoon,  and  had  returned  show- 
mg  none  of  the  signs  which  usually  attested  the  proxim- 
ity of  the  Christmas.  Not  only  'Zouri's  stockings  but 
three  other  little  ones  had  been  hung  upon  the  jamb 
of  the  toppling  chimney.  Grim  Uncle  Peter,  with  a 
queer  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  had  superintended  their 
suspension,  and  had  succeeded  in  giving  to  each  one 
a  choice  location  where  the  open  leg  of  the  little  stock- 
ing would  just  gape  wide  and  plain  in  the  very  face 
of  Santa  Claus  as  he  scrambled  down  the  old  crooked- 
backed  stick  chimney.  The  children  had  been  sent 
to  bed  early,  with  strict  injunction  that  any  one  who 
should  try  to  act  the  Paul  Pry  on  Santa  Claus  would 
surely  miss  receiving  anything  from  him.  It  had 
been  a  dull,  rainy  day,  but  just  at  night  the  clouds 
cleared  away,  and  a  brisk,  cold  wind  sprang  up  from 
the  north-westward,  giving  promise  of  a  sharp  frost. 

'Zouri  had  clambered  up  the  ladder  into  the  rude 
loft  with  little  Dot,  and  together  they  had  hid 
their  faces  under  the  cover  of  their  rude  pal- 
let to  render  the  temptation  to  peep  impossible  of 
fulfillment,  and,   whispering   to   each   other  of   their 


A    MISTAKE   AND  A    MISSTEP.  515 

hopes,  had-  fallen  asleep.  The  stars  were  shining 
brightly  and  coldly  through  the  roof  when  'Zouri 
awoke.  All  was  still.  She  could  hear  Uncle  Peter 
snoring  in  the  room  below.  How  she  wondered  if 
Santa  Claus  had  made  his  rounds  yet !  She  had  al- 
ways heard  that  he  came  just  about  twelve  o'clock. 
She  wondered  whether  it  was  yet  past  midnight  or 
not.  She  was  afraid  to  look  toward  the  chimney,  lest 
she  should  infringe  the  command  of  the  mystic  gift- 
bearer.  Yet  she  did  so  long  to  know  if  he  had  passed 
that  way,  if  he  had  come  down  the  old  stick  chimney, 
if  he  had  brought  her  any  gifts,  and,  if  so,  what.  She 
waited — it  seemed  to  her  an  age.  She  was  sure  it 
must  be  past  midnight.  At  length  she  concluded  to 
take  just  one  look,  not  to  spy  on  Santa  Claus,  but  just 
to  see  if  he  had  come.  So  she  crawled  out  of  the 
pallet-bed  on  which  they  slept  and  crept  to  the  edge 
of  the  loose  boards  which  constituted  the  flooring  of 
the  loft.  Then  she  looked  down  at  the  fireplace.  The 
fire  had  almost  died  away,  but  just  as  she  was  strain- 
ing her  eyes  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  stockings  a  big 
log  that  had  burned  quite  in  two  under  the  ashes 
Uncle  Pete  had  heaped  on  it  fell  apart,  and  one  of 
the  ends  rolled  over  and  burst  into  a  blaze.  The 
light  of  this  blaze  fell  fair  on  'Zouri's  stocking  and 
enabled  her  to  see  that  it  was  full — more  than  full,  for 
whatever  was  in  it  came  above  the  top  and  hung  over 
almost  as  if  it  would  fall  out.  What  could  it  be?  She 
guessed  a  thousand  things,  each  more  improbable 
than  the  other,  and  with  each  guess  her  curiosity  in- 
creased.    It  was  useless  for  her  to  think  of  sleeping. 


516  'ZOURrS  CHRISTMAS. 

She  crept  back  to  the  pallet  and  lay  down  beside  Dot, 
who  was  slumbering  peacefully.  It  seemed  impossi- 
ble that  Santa  Claus  should  have  been  so  kind  as  to 
remember  her.  She  had  half  expected  that  he  would 
not.  She  wondered  if  there  would  be  any  harm  in 
her  going  to  see  what  it  was  without  waiting  for 
morning.  Right  or  wrong,  the  first  she  knew  she 
found  herself  stealing  down  the  ladder  and  tiptoeing 
across  the  rough  cabin  floor  toward  the  fireplace.  The 
wind  blew  cold  through  the  wide  cracks,  but  she  did 
not  feel  it.  She  reached  the  fireplace  and  standing  on 
tiptoe  gazed  at  the  overcrowded  stocking.  Her  eyes 
distended  with  amazement.  She  could  not  believe 
the  message  which  they  brought.  She  reached  forth 
her  hand  and  touched  it  doubtfully,  seeking  assur- 
ance. Still  she  doubted.  The  justification  of  her 
faith  appalled  her.  She  drew  forth  the  topmost  par- 
cel cautiously  and  with  a  trembling  hand.  It  was 
wrapped  in  soft  white  tissue  paper,  and  seemed  too 
delicate  and  rich  for  the  surroundings  in  which  she 
stood.  Her  heart  gave  a  great  bound  as  it  flashed 
upon  her  that  it  might  not  be  for  her.  At  last  she 
knelt  down  upon  the  rough,  shattered  hearth,  and  lay- 
ing the  bundle  before  her  unwrapped  it,  tenderly  and 
softly.  How  black  her  hands  seemed  where  they 
showed  against  the  clear  white  paper  !  Fold  after 
fold  of  the  silky  tissue  she  removed  until — was  it  a 
dream  of  heaven?  Had  the  quaint,  grim.  Christian 
elfin  brought  her  an  angel  from  the  sky  ?  She  clasped 
her  hands  and  gazed  in  mute,  worshipful  amazement 
at  the  vision  of  loveliness  which  lay  upon  the  rough 


ZOURI'S    CHRISTMAS. 


"  She  clasped  her  hands  and  gazed  in  tnute  luorship/ul  amazement  at  the 

vision  oy  loveliness  which  lay  upon  the  rough  mud-ivhitened 

hearth  be/ore  her.'''' — p.  517. 


A   MISTAKE  AND  A    MISSTEP.  517 

mud-whitened  hearth  before  her,  lit  into  life-like 
seeming  by  the  flickering  blaze  of  the  expiring  brand. 
A  doll  lay  before  her,  with  features  wrought  to  the 
life  in  delicately  tinted  wax,  which  by  the  dim  light 
seemed  animate  and  cherubic,  with  fair  wavy  hair 
falling  over  its  tiny  dimpled  shoulders,  and  dressed  in 
robes  of  gossamer  sheen  which  to  her  simple  seeming 
only  fairy  fingers  could  have  wrought !  Her  heart  was 
hushed  with  a  rapture  before  unknown.  The  sweet 
similitude  of  mimic  life  had  unlocked  to  her  hungry 
soul  the  pearly  gates  of  the  heaven  of  beauty.  How 
long  she  gazed  upon  it  she  knew  not.  She  only  awoke 
from  her  rapturous  vision  when  the  flickering  flame 
died  out  in  darkness  and  the  chill  wind  blew  through 
crevices  and  cast  the  smothering  smoke  into  her  face. 
Then  she  folded  her  fairy  treasure  in  its  wrappings, 
clasped  it  to  her  bounding  heart,  and  in  rapt  ecstasy 
climbed  the  ladder  to  her  pallet.  Still  clasping  it 
close  she  crept  beneath  the  dingy  cover. 

But  she  could  not  sleep  ;  the  vision  she  had  seen 
engendered  other  visions.  Her  fancy  ran  riot  as  to 
what  the  morrow  would  bring  forth — not  for  herself. 
Her  cup  was  already  full.  No  more  of  rapture  could 
be  pressed  into  it — but  to  others — to  little  Dot,  and 
Pete,  and  Bunk  !  She  was  sorry  she  had  not  looked 
into  their  stockings,  too  !  Her  heart  reproached  her 
for  her  selfishness.  And  then  her  thought  recurred 
to  the  great  house  across  the  river,  to  the  angel  lady 
who  dwelt  there.  She  would  take  her — yes,  her  doll 
— her  very  own  angel  dolly — over  and  show  it  to  Miss 
Sophy  to-morrow.     How  proud  and  happy  she  would 


518  'ZOURIS   CHRISTMAS. 

be  when  that  lady  of  all  ladies  saw  the  beautiful  e^ift 
which  Santa  Claus  had  brought  to  'Zouri — little  'Zouri, 
to  whom  she  had  been  so  kind.  And  then  her  thought 
recurred  to  her  golden-haired,  blue-eyed  playmate, 
"young  Marse  Ferdie,"  whose  face  was  the  fairest  and 
sweetest  she  had  ever  seen,  except  the  face  of  her 
Christmas  dolly.  It  was  like  that,  too — just  so  white 
and  fair,  with  the  tender  pink  mixed  wuth  its  velvet  soft- 
ness— just  the  same.  She  wondered  if  the  dolly  which 
he  expected  would  be  so  beautiful.     She  wondered  if — 

All  at  once  she  sat  up  panting  with  horror.  The 
blood  forsook  her  face.  Her  limbs  were  numb  and 
cold.  Her  hair  would  have  stood  on  end  but  for  its 
close  entanglements.  Her  breath  came  hard  and  fast ! 
A  horrible  idea  had  seized  upon  her  mind  ! 

"  Dar  now,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  soon  as  her  ter- 
ror-parched tongue  would  obey  her  will,  "  dat  no- 
'count  Santa  Claus  done  made  a  mistake,  arter  all. 
Dis  yer  doll  baby  not  mine  at  all.  Mout  a  knowed 
dat  afore.  Heap  too  fine  fer  nigger  gal  ter  hab,  enny- 
how.  Pore  Marse  Ferdie  !  He'll  jes'  cry  his  purty 
eyes  out  when  he  fin'  ole  Santy  serve  him  sech  a  trick  ! 
An'  he's  been  lookin'  for  it  so  long,  too.  Bress  his 
heart  !  I  takes  it  right  ober  an'  gives  it  ter  him  in  de 
mornin',  fust  thing,  so  I  will  !  But,  la  sakes  !  'twon't 
nebber  seem  like  ez  ef  Santy  hed  bro't  hit  an'  put  hit 
in  'is  stockin'  ez  he  orter  done,  nohow,  ef  taint  dar 
when  he  gits  up  in  de  mornin'.  No  mo'  hit  won't ! 
Ef  I  could  on'y " 

She  sprang  out  of  her  bed,  laid  the  precious  bundle 
down  on  the  pallet,  caught  her  old  linsey-wolsey  dress 


A    MISTAKE   AND  A    MISSTEP.  519 

from  a  nail  in  the  rafter,  slipped  it  on,  and,  taking  the 
doll  upon  her  arm,  ran  down  the  ladder  without  mak- 
ing noise  enough  to  wake  a  mouse  ;  raised  the  wooden 
latch,  opened  the  door  cautiously,  and  ran  down  the 
well-known  path  to  the  ford.  The  cold  wind  whistled 
about  her,  but  she  did  not  feel  it.  The  moist  clay 
was  stiffening  with  frost,  but  she  did  not  heed  it.  The 
moon  hid  her  face  behind  a  cloud  as  if  to  daunt  her, 
but  she  knew  the  path  too  well  to  need  its  light. 

Before  there  was  time  to  think  she  was  at  the  ford 
and  pattering  along  the  foot-log.  The  rain  which  had 
clung  to  its  foot-worn  surface  here  and  there  had 
turned  to  ice  since  the  sun  went  down.  She  did  not 
mind  it.  She  reached  the  middle  of  the  stream.  An 
owl  upon  the  other  bank  rose  and  floated  away  above 
her  with  a  weird  "  To-whit !  to-whoo  !"  The  water 
dashed  bright  and  cold  over  the  rocky  bed  below.  She 
knew  the  current  was  deep  and  strong.  There  was  a 
slip,  a  quick,  vain  effort  to  rally,  a  sudden  splash,  one 
shrill  shriek,  and  'Zouri  and  young  Marse  Ferdie's 
dolly  were  borne  downward  by  the  cold,  hungry  river 
that  laughed  and  gurgled  in  cruel  glee  as  it  dragged 
the  young  life  along.  There  was  another  cry  as  she 
came  once  to  the  surface.  She  held  the  doll  high 
above  the  water  to  save  it  from  destruction.  The 
water  dragged  her  down  again — down  to  the  bottom  ; 
dashed  her  against  the  cold,  sharp  stones ;  twisted  the 
linsey  gown  about  her  legs,  and  then  tossed  her  up  to 
the  surface,  so  that  the  cold  winter  moon  which  for  a 
time  had  hid  her  light  might  see  the  prey  the  river 
had  caught  through  her  treachery. 

32 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

MARSE    BEN    AND    TRUMPETER. 

IT  was  one  o'clock,  and  Squire  Ben  Hartson  was  on 
his  way  home  from  Benbury  Court-house,  where 
he  had  been  with  some  friends  making  some  festive 
preparations  for  the  advent  of  Christmas.  He  was 
mounted  on  his  favorite  dappled-bay  hunter  Trump- 
eter— "the  best  horse,"  he  was  wont  to  declare,  "in 
the  whole  State  to  ride  to  hounds  in  a  bad  country, 
or  when  one  was  a  little  uncertain  of  his  way  or  a 
leetle  too  large  for  his  saddle  ;"  which  latter  qualifica- 
tion was  well  understood  to  refer  to  the  effects  of  cer- 
tain spirituous  decoctions  which  were  especially  abun- 
dant about  the  period  of  the  Christmas  holidays.  He 
had  reached  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  was  turning 
toward  the  ford  around  the  great  locust  in  front  of 
Peter's  hut,  when  he  heard  a  sound  which  caused  hini 
to  draw  rein  and  listen.  The  horse  champed  the  bit 
and  stamped  angrily  at  the  delay.  He  was  impatient 
for  his  stall  and  the  generous  feed  which  he  knew 
was  waiting  in  his  trough.  While  his  master  listened 
he  threw  up  his  head  and  neighed.  The  rays  of  the 
moon  just  emerging  from  a  cloud  sparkled  brightly 
in  the  filmy  mist  which  rose  from  his  nostrils.  His 
master  started  like  one  affrighted  at  the  sound,  and 
jerked    the    rein    savagely.       His    heart    was   beating 


MARSE   BEN  AND    TRUMPETER.  521 

quick,  and  a  feeling  of  nameless  horror   crept  over 

him. 

"  I  declare,"  he  muttered  to  himself  when  he  had 
listened  a  moment  and  heard  nothing,  "if  Sophy  knew 
this  I  do  believe  she'd  think  I  was  drunk.  I  ain't, 
though,  nor  I  ain't  tight — much.  I  should  have  to 
admit,  if  I  was  sworn,  that  I  do  feel  my  spirits  a  lee- 
tle.  That  last  dram  with  Dr.  Mack  was  jest  a  trifle 
more'n  I  oughter  hev  taken  on.  It  couldn't  be  helped, 
though.  Couldn't  say  "  No  "  to  an  old  friend  on  Christ- 
mas Eve.  But  I  ain't  drunk,  and  I  did  hear  a  scream. 
That  I'll  swear.  And,  by  the  same  token,  'twas  from 
down  there  at  the  ford,  too.  I  don't  know  why  'tis, 
but  I've  always  hated  to  cross  that  ford  late  in  the 
night,  ever  since  we  took  Sam  Ingold  out  of  it  twelve 
years  ago.  I've  always  thought  there  was  foul  play 
about  that  matter  somehow,  and  more'n  once  I've 
thought  I  heard  something  there  when  I  knew  there 
was  nobody  there  to  make  a  sound.  There  'twas 
again  !  No  ?  Get  along,  Trumpeter  !  durned  if  I 
don't  believe  the  devil  has  got  some  sort  of  business 
on  hand  there  now.  If  he  has  we  may  as  well  take  a 
hand  as  anybody,  old  fellow  ;  eh,  Trump  ?" 

He  dug  his  spurs  into  the  horse's  flank,  and  with  a 
loud  view-halloo  dashed  down  to  the  ford  and  half 
across  the  bright  plashing  expanse  of  moonlit  water 
before  he  stopped.  He  had  drawn  his  pistol  as  he 
came,  and  as  he  drew  rein  he  peered  up  and  down 
the  stream  in  apprehension  of  something  terrible, 
he  knew  not  what.  He  could  see  nothing,  yet  could 
not  rid   himself  of  the  idea  that  something  horrible 


522  'ZOURFS   CHRISTMAS. 

was  to  be  seen  if  he  but  knew  where  to  look.  The 
horse  pulled  upon  the  rein,  and  when  his  master 
loosed  it,  dropped  his  head  to  the  water  and  began  to 
drink.  Hartson  scanned  the  banks  of  the  stream 
keenly,  but  saw  nothing  unusual.  The  current  where 
he  stood  was  too  swift  for  the  horse  to  drink,  and  he 
edged  little  by  little  downward  where  the  water  flowed 
over  the  granite  ledge  and  settled  still  and  deep  be- 
low. Reaching  this  he  satisfied  his  thirst  and  stood 
waiting  his  master's  pleasure.  All  at  once  he  uttered 
a  snort  of  surprise  and  almost  unseated  his  rider  as 
he  sprang  aside  snorting  and  gazing  down  the  stream 
in  terror. 

"Well,  I  swear,"  said  Hartson,  now  thoroughly 
cool,  "this  beats  everything.  I  hear  the  devil,  and 
you  see  him.  Hanged  if  I  don't  find  out  what  all  this 
means  before  I  leave  here,  if  it  takes  till  Christmas  a 
year  !" 

Following  the  direction  of  the  horse's  affrighted 
glance  his  rider  saw  a  small  white  spot  in  the  still 
black  water  below.  He  remembered  then  that  durmg 
the  last  summer  freshet  a  willow  had  w^ashed  from 
the  bank  above,  and  wdth  a  mass  of  earth  clinging  to 
its  roots  had  been  carried  over  the  ripple  at  the  ford, 
but  had  sunk  in  the  still  water  below,  above  which  its 
branches  just  showed  at  low  water.  He  knew  at  once 
that  the  moving  white  spot  which  he  saw  w^as  some- 
thing which  had  lodged  against  the  willow  and  was 
moved  up  and  down  by  the  action  of  the  water.  Hav- 
ing set  himself  to  lay  the  ghost  of  Quillar's  Ford,  and 
being  now  thoroughly  roused,  he  did   ixX  hesitate  a 


MARSE  BEN  AND    TRUMPETER.  523 

• 

moment,  but  giving  his  horse  the  spur  he  dashed  into 
the  black  eddy  and  swam  toward  the  white  object. 
As  they  came  near  the  horse  edged  around  it  and 
snorted  with  terror,  but  his  master  kept  him  in  place, 
and  when  he  came  within  reach  made  a  clutch  at  the 
white  spot.  His  heavy  hand  pressed  down  a  light, 
fluffy  mass,  and  grasped — a  human  arm  ! 

"Hi,  Trump!"  he  shouted,  as  he  turned  his  horse's 
head  to  the  shore  and  clung  with  one  hand  to  the 
saddle-bow  and  with  the  other  to  the  strange  burden 
which  was  trailing  after  them.  Ben  Hartson  was  no 
coward.  Though  he  might  for  a  moment  flinch  at  a 
superstition,  there  was  no  tangible  horror  or  danger 
which  could  for  a  moment  daunt  him.  Long  before 
he  reached  the  shore  he  had  regained  his  composure ; 
and  when  they  came  to  shoal  water  he  drew  the  drip- 
ping thing  to  which  the  arm  was  attached  alongside 
of  him,  peered  at  it  by  the  moonlight,  and  seeing 
that  it  was  the  body  of  a  child,  swung  it  upon  his  sad- 
ele-bow  and  by  a  brief  examination  decided  that  life 
was  not  extinct.  He  did  not  wait  to  know  more,  but 
dug  the  rowels  into  his  horse  and  in  a  moment  after 
had  jumped  the  gate  into  his  own  yard,  sprung  from 
his  horse,  and,  carrying  his  burden  into  his  own  room 
where  he  knew  a  fire  was  burning,  laid  it  limp  and 
dripping  on  the  hearth-rug,  waked  his  servant,  bade 
him  rouse  the  cook,  and  returned  to  make  a  further 
examination.  He  recognized  the  child  at  a  glance, 
and  was  trying  to  think  what  to  say  to  his  wife  to 
prevent  shocking  her  nerves,  when  he  heard  her  speak 
at  his  side. 


524  'ZOUUrS  CHRISTMAS. 

''  I  declare  if  it  ain't  'Zouri !  What  does  it  mean, 
Ben  ?'• 

"  It  means,"  said  he  coolly,  "that  if  we  don't  watch 
out  sharp  there'll  be  one  less  nigger  on  the  plantation 
to-morrow  than  to-day." 

''  But  what — "  she  began. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  found  her  in  the  river,  and  here 
she  is.     Let's  have  some  brandy  and  blankets." 

But  it  was  useless  for  him  to  give  further  directions. 
The  Mistress  of  Content  took  charge  of  the  matter  at 
once.  The  wet  clothing  was  removed,  brandy  forced 
between  the  cold  lips,  hot  blankets  wrapped  around  the 
little  form.  After  a  time  'Zouri  began  to  respond  to 
these  efforts  with  feeble  sighs,  and  in  an  hour  she  was 
past  all  danger.  Squire  Hartson  sent  back  to  Peter's 
house,  and  soon  both  he  and  his  wife  were  there  won- 
dering at  the  strange  sight.  No  explanation  could  be 
offered  until  Compy  caught  sight  of  the  doll,  terribly 
washed  and  draggled,  which  lay  limp  and  broken  on 
the  floor.  A  light  broke  upon  her  which  was  confirm- 
ed the  next  day  by  'Zouri's  statement. 

"Well,  I  declare,"  said  Ben  Hartson,  as  he  stood 
beside  the  lounge  on  which  'Zouri  lay  and  heard  her 
sobbingly  and  timidly  relate  the  story  of  her  night 
adventures  while  he  held  his  little  golden-haired  boy 
by  the  hand.  "  So  you  started  out  at  that  time  of  the 
night  to  bring  this  little  rascal  that  dolly,  did  you,  be- 
cause you  thought  Santa  Clans  had  made  a  mistake  ? 
It  was  lucky  that  Trumpeter  and  I  came  along  about 
that  time.  But  you  deserve  the  dolly,  and  you  shall 
have  it." 


MARSE  BEN   AND    TRUMPETER.  525 

"  And  I  too,  papa  ;  mayn't  I  have  a  dolly-baby,  too 
— a  new  dolly-baby,  papa  >" 

"Well,  yes,"  laughed  his  father.  "I  never  made 
anything  settmg  up  against  your  ma  yet  !  I  reckon 
you'll  have  to  be  a  gal-boy  for  another  year." 

So  Squire  Ben  Hartson  mounted  upon  Trumpeter 
and  rode  away  to  Benbury  Court-house,  where  he  told 
the  story  of  'Zouri's  adventure  of  the  night  before 
with  many  a  commendation  of  "  that  plucky  little 
nigger  gal  '  who  risked  her  life,  and  almost  lost  it,  too, 
for  his  little  Ferdie.  He  came  home  bringing  two 
dolls  larger  and  nicer  than  the  unfortunate  one  whose 
glory  the  river  had  destroyed. 


The  Christmas  feast  at  Uncle  Peter's  was  delayed 
until  the  fourth  day  of  the  Christmas  week,  but  it 
came  finally,  and  "  Bre'er  Sam's"  folks  and  the  neigh- 
bors from  up  the  river  were  there.  Uncle  Peter  was 
beaming  and  cordial  in  his  Sunday  suit,  his  broad, 
honest  face  aglow,  his  hair  carefully  combed  and  mat- 
ted close,  and  his  grizzled  moustache  bristling  with  a 
quaint  show  of  fierceness  above  his  wide  mouth.  He 
had  had  great  luck  on  the  river  and  in  the  forest,  as 
the  well-spread  table  showed.  A  monster  turkey- 
gobbler  which  had  wandered  up  to  his  baited  blind  at- 
tested the  murderous  capacity  of  his  gun,  and  occupied 
the  place  of  honor  in  the  centre  of  the  table.  On  one 
of  its  flanks  a  fat  opossum  grinned,  and  on  the  other 
a  magnificent  Red  Horse,  done  to  a  turn,  bore  testi- 
mony also  to  his  prowess.  With  these  were  the  rich 
brown  corn-pones  for  which  Compy  was  celebrated. 


526  'ZOURrs  CHRISTMAS. 

the  round  hard-crusted  biscuits  of  flaky  white  within, 
and  great  piles  of  baked  sweet  potatoes.  Of  everything 
there  was  a  lavish  abundance,  except  of  the  regular 
Christmas  drink.  Just  one  glass  of  foamy  nogg  stood 
by  each  plate.  Compy  was  radiant  in  a  new  dress, 
happiness,  and  the  pride  of  a  cook  whose  climacteric 
feast  has  come  upon  the  table  without  misadventure. 

i  'Zouri  came  to  her  Christmas  dinner  in  the  family 
carriage  of  the  Hartsons,  magnificent,  to  her  own  eyes 
at  least,  in  the  sheen  of  Christmas  clothes  in  their  first 
newness,  and  bearing  in  her  arms  a  dolly  even  more 
beautiful  than  the  one  over  which  Santa  Claus  had 
blundered  so  sadly.  With  her  the  carriage  brought 
a  basket  stored  with  many  tit-bits  from  the  pantry  of 
the  great  house,  with  dishes  borrowed  for  the  Christ- 
mas feast,  and  "  young  Marse  Ferdie,"  bearing  a  doll 
which  was  the  undistinguishable  twin  of  that  in  'Zouri's 
arms.  Little  Pete  in  boots  and  trousers,  and  Bunk 
and  Dot  in  the  glory  of  new  frocks,  stood  here  and 
there  among  the  guests  in  the  crowded  cabin,  with 
distended  eyes,  and  fingers  in  their  mouths,  astounded 
at  the  unaccustomed  magnificence.     Master  Ferdie,  as 

.  well  as  the  servant  who  brought  him,  had  been  care- 
fully instructed  to  return  at  once,  but  both  he  and  the 
driver  were  overpersuaded,  and  when  the  feast  was 
set,  Marse  Ferdie  was  perched  high  up  in  the  place  of 
honor.  When  the  company  were  placed.  Uncle  Peter, 
standing  at  the  head  of  the  table,  asked  a  well-conned 
blessing,  and  hearty  amens  came  from  the  bowed 
heads  around  the  board.  Then  he  lifted  his  glass  of 
nogg,  and  with  a  bow  and  a  scrape  to  the  table  said  ; 


MARSE  BEN  AND    TRUMPETER.  527 

"  Ladies  an'  gemmea,  yer'll  'low  me  ter  drink  yer 
good  healths  an'  Chris'mas  Gif  s  !" 

Then  he  tried  to  drain  the  glass,  but  a  part  of  the 
foamy  nogg  remained  in  it  despite  his  efforts,  and  part 
was  deposited  in  a  creamy  half-moon  upon  his  dark 
moustache.  The  "gemmen"  alluded  to  sprang  up 
and  followed  his  example. 

"  Sarvunt,  Uncle  Peter,"  said  one. 

"Ladies,  your  good  healths,"  another. 

"  De  crack  hunter  an'  fisher  ob  de  Dan,"  a  third. 

"  De  lady  dat  bro't  luck  ter  Quillar's  Fo'd,"  said 
another,  gallantly  bowing  to  Compy. 

Uncle  Peter  kept  bowing  and  scraping  in  response 
to  these  compliments.  Compy  with  her  big  coffee- 
pot in  her  hand  kept  dropping  courtesies  and  smiling 
contentedly  at  these  pleasantries.  The  "ladies"  sim- 
pered, and  the  children  first  stared  and  then  laughed  as 
the  fun  went  on.  It  was  too  much  for  Marse  Ferdie, 
and  presently  he  piped  in  childish  treble  from  his  lofty 
perch,  "  'Rah  for  Uncle  Peter  and — and — and  Santa 
Claus  !" 

In  this  the  table  joined  with  uproarious  shouts. 

But  Uncle  Peter,  rising  from  his  lowest  bow  and 
wiping  the  spray  of  the  egg-nogg  from  his  moustache, 
said  : 

"  Ladies  an'  gemmen,  dar's  whar  you's  mistaken. 
An'  beggin'  de  parding  of  young  Marse  Ferdie,  dar's 
whar  he's  mistaken,  too.  'Tain't  fer  ye  ter  be  givin' 
me  compliments,  ner  Compy  ner  Santy  Claus  neither. 
Ef  it  hadn't  a'  been  dat  one  pe'tickler  little  gal  hed  sot 
her  heart  on  habbin'  a  reg'lar  white-folks'  Christmas 


528  'ZOURVS  CHRISTMAS. 

we'd  ncbber  a  hed  none  in  dis  yer  house,  dat's  shuah. 
Kase  ef  it  hadn't  been  fer  her,  Aunt  Compy  'd  nebber 
a'  'sidered  ;  an'  ef  she  hadn't  'sidered  she'd  nebber  a' 
waked  up  Uncle  Peter;  an' sides  dat,  an'  a  heap  mo', 
we'd  nebber  hed  no  help  ner  counsel  from  der  bressed 
Miss  Sophy.  An'  I  speaks  fer  her,  ladies  an'  gemmen, 
an'  I  axes  yer,  in  her  name,  to  jes'  set  to  an'  help  yer- 
selves  to  'Zouri's  Chris'mas." 

There  was  mirth  and  laughter  and  unaffected  enjoy- 
ment of  the  substantial  feast.  Young  and  old  were 
alike  boisterous  and  alike  happy.  The  Christmas 
dinner  was  accounted  by  all  a  grand  success,  and 
the  compliments  to  Peter  with  which  it  commenced 
were  more  than  eclipsed  by  those  to  Compy,  with 
which  it  ended. 

The  Christmas  week  passed  off  pleasantly,  but  far 
more  quietly  than  had  been  usual  at  the  fordman's 
cabin.  When  on  its  last  night  Aunt  Compy  and 
Uncle  Peter  sat  beside  the  smoldering  fire  after  the 
children  were  asleep,  the  former  said: 

"  Wal,  Peter,  what  yer  tinks  now  'bout  habbin'  ub  a 
white-folks'  Chris'mas  ?" 

"D'yer  know,  Compy,"  he  responded,  solemnly, 
"dat  I  hain't  tuck  a  drap  o' liquor,  'cept  dat  one 
glass  ub  egg-nogg,  ner  shot  a  gun  'cept  at  somefin' 
game,  ner  hed  any  carryin's  on  sech  ez  we  ginerally 
hez  ?" 

"  An'  how  yer  likes  it,  Peter  ?" 

"So  well,. honey,  dat  I  nebber  'lows  ter  hab  any 
udder  kin'  o'  Chris'mas  ez  long  ez  I  knows  myself. 
Does  you  ?" 


MARSE  BEN  AND    TRUMPETER.  529 

"No,  honey,  dat  I  don't ;  an'  it's  quare  too.  It's  all 
'long  o'  dat  gal  'Zouri,  dat  we  come  ter  try  it." 

"  Dat's  so,  Compy;  I'se  been  tinkin*  ob  it  a  heap. 
'Pears  like  dat  gal's  been  a  'fillin'  de  Scripter  dat  says, 
^  An' a  little  chile  shall  lead  'urn.'  " 


And  in  truth  the  child  had  led  them  along  the  path 
that  leads  to  freedom — not  that  which  comes  by 
"  proclamation"  and  "  constitutional  amendment,"  but 
that  which  springs  from  self-denial,  self-control,  and 
self-direction. 


PUBLISHED    BY    FORDS,    HOWARD,    &    HULBERT, 
27  Park   Place,  New  York. 


American  Historical  Novels, 

By  ALBION  W.  TOMGEE,  late  Judgs  Superior  Ccnrt,  Norm  Carolina. 

"  The  novels  of  this  author  have  served  as  campaign  document  to  a  degree  that 
may  obscure  their  merits  as  hterature;  yet,  the  truih  is,  ^"'■"'y^^y'^'"^    ^  ^T 
so  powerful  has  been  vvruten.   from  a  merely  literary  standpomt   as  ^^ese  books 
•Uncle  Tom's   Cabin'   cannot  compare  with  them  m   this  respect,   -i^pnngjieui 
(Mass.)  Reptiblican. 

"A  FOOL'S  Errand," 

By    One    of    the    Fools, 

361  pages.    Cloth,  $1.00.  _    ^ 

^'"^ "  A  political  and  social  study  .  •  •  pursued  with  great  candor  and  no  small 
discrimination  •'- 7  A.  ^^found  interest  for  its  luminous  exposition  oj  his toncal  facg, 
as  well  as  to  be  admired  for  its  masterly  power  of  picturesque  and  pathetic  descrip- 
tion."—iV^ew  York  Tribune. 

"Bricks  without  Straw." 

521  pages.     With  Frontispiece.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  A   work    of    wonderful   interest  and    wonderful    power.     .     .     .     It  will   be 
read  ithTbrorbmg  auention,  and  recognized  as  one  of  the  most  effective  of  those 

'°°H^.S"haraae'rs'ar??rai  cr7adrnfofSmance,  who  will  live  alongside  of  Mr. 
StoweTor  Walter  s"o«'s  till  the  times  that  gave  them  birth  have  been  forgotten. 

-^^ir/e  Si'J'j:?;  of  Swift  and  his  pamphleteers^  we  doubt  if  fiction  has  been 
of  my  knowledge.''-/'^...  Afuierson,  Rochester  University. 

"Figs  and  Thistles." 

c-^S   pages.      With    Frontispiece.      Cloth,   I1.50. 

"Trnwded  widi  incident,  populous  with  strong  characters   rich  m  humor,  and 
Urowaea  wiin  !"'-'>"="'■' J^:.  •,     -.^.texe'^t"— Boston  Commonwenlth. 

Atchison  (Kan.)  Chafupion.  _  ^i,:iir„i  „««  of  the  scenes  and  inci- 

"  The  author  has  made  a  most  spirited  and  skillful  use  ot  tJie  scenes  ana 

dents  of  the  ^?irr-Atla7itic  Monthly  ^      .  ^y^e 

.JJ^S^^SS^SS..    '#H|SSH""oS.'".&'^.el.  .K.  fees,  .d 

prairie  of  the  WtsC' -Chicago  ^«/'',^-^^^'^«-  ^^^^,  ,  ^v,.  ^ake  up  this  book  expect- 


PUBLISHED    BY    FORDS,    HOWARD,    &    HULBERT, 
27  Park  Place,  New  York. 

THE    GREAT   INDIAN   NOVEL! 


Ploughed  Under: 

THE    STORY    OF    AN     INDIAN     CHIEF. 

TOLD   BY  HIMSELF. 

With  a  Spicy  Introduction  about  Indians, 
By  INSHTA  THEAMBA  {''Bright  Eyes,"  of  the  Poneas). 


i6mo,   Cloth,   with   decorative   cover   design    from    Crawford's 
Statue  of  "The  Indian."     $1. 


"  Something  unique  in  literature.  ...  It  will  sustain  much  the  same  rela- 
tion to  pending  questions  of  Indian  Policy  as  '  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  '  sustained  to 
slavery  and  anti-slavery  agitation." — Chicago  Standard. 

"A  story  of  the  early  impressions,  experiences,  and  ideas  of  a  young  Indian 
chief,  embodying  many  of  the  customs,  usages,  and  legends  of  the  red  men,  de- 
scriptions of  hunts,  battles,  and  incidents  of  many  kinds,  all  interesting  and  all 
authentic.  It  presents  their  own  notions  of  things,  largely  in  their  own  words, 
and  in  the  graphic  guise  of  fiction  makes  known  many  significant  facts,  and  depicts 
many  characteristic  fancies  of  theirs  not  familiar  to  the  public." — Providence 
(R.  I.)  Star. 

"  The  story  is  full  of  the  interest  of  life,  love,  and  adventure  among  these 
strange  people,  and  contains  much  food  for  thought  amon?  our  own  intelligent 
and  'civilized'  citizens.  It  gives  a  graphic  picture  of  the  Indian  as  he  is — good 
and  bad,  like  the  rest  of  the  world — and  portrays  the  beauties  of  our  '  Indian 
policy,'  with  its  effect  on  the  fortunes  and  its  impression  on  the  mind  of  a  genu- 
ine red  man.  Such  a  showing  of  hidden  facts  is  needed,  and  the  public  will  wel- 
come it,  coming  in  such  attractive  form." — Ne^v  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  The  writer  has  a  keen  sense  of  the  satire  of  situations.  .  .  .  It  is  to  be 
hoped  that  '  Ploughed  Under'  will  follow  fast  in  the  footsteps  of 'A  Fool's  Er- 
rand '  and  '  Bricks  without  Straw.'  It  is  as  true  of  it  as  of  them  that  a  mighty 
purpose  to  show  up  wrongs,  backed  by  an  array  of  facts  and  incidents  drawn 
from  actual  life,  has  a  tremendous  force  in  opening  people's  eyes  to  truth,  and 
making  thsm  think  rightly."— 714*  Critic. 


PUBLISHED    BY    FORDS,    HOWARD,    Sc    HULBERT, 

27  Park  Place,  New  York. 


FIELD,  FOREST,  AND  STREAM. 

Flirtation  Camp;  or,  The  Rifle,  Rod,  and  Gun  in  Cali- 
fornia. A  Sporting  Romance.  By  Theodore  S.  Van  Dyke. 
i2mo,  cloth,  beveled,  fancy  gold-stamped  cover,  $1.50. 

"  A  valuable  addition  to  the  literature  of  Sporting  on  the  Pacific  Coast,  presented 
in  the  entertaining  form  of  a  story.  Mr.  Van  Dyke  is  well  known  among  the  lovers  of 
hunting  and  fishing,  through  his  frequent  contributions  on  those  subjects  to  the  best 
sporting  papers;  and  his  descriptions  will  be  received  as  authentic.  As  a  descriptive 
writer  the  author  shows  much  abihty,  and  the  exciting  incidents  of  the  story,  as  well 
as  the  hunting  exploits  narrated,  are  vividly  portrayed.  Those  who  seek  lower 
California  for  the  restoration  of  health,  or  the  pleasures  of  the  field  and  stream,  will 
find  here  many  valuable  suggestions." — New  York  Star, 

There  is  a  pleasant  flavor  of  merr>-  burlesque  and  humor  pervading  the  whole 
tale,  and  the  reader  is  alternately  amused  with  his  companions,  charmed  with  the  un- 
affected and  graphic  descriptions  of  scenery,  intensely  interested  in  the  zeal  of  the 
chase,  and  instructed  in  the  multifarious  habits  of  game  and  arts  of  the  sportsman. 
The  story  will  be  enjoyed  rather  by  the  lover  of  out-door  life  and  adventure,  than 
by  the  ordinary  novel-reader.     It  is  a  wholesome,  breezy,  racy  book. 

Field,  Cover,  and  Trap  Shooting.  By  Adam  H.  Bogardus 
{Champion  Wing  Shot  of  the  World).  l2mo,  443  pp.  Steel 
Portrait.     $2. 

This  admirable  compendium  of  over  forty  years'  experience  is  a  complete  book 
of  its  kind.  It  embraces  hints  for  skilled  marksmen,  instructions  for  young  sports- 
men, haunts  and  habits  of  game-birds,  flight  and  resorts  of  water-fowl,  breeding  and 
breaking  of  dogs,  and  other  subjects  of  interest.  Edited  by  Charles  J.  Foster, 
the  veteran  editor  of  the  N.  V.  Sportsman,  it  is  in  practical,  available  shape. 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS 


Camp  and  Cabin:   Sketches  of  Life  and   Travel  in  the  West. 

By  R.  W.  Raymond.     Little  Classic  style,  red  edges  ;   with 

Frontispiece.     $i. 

"  Dr.  Raymond's  ten  years  as  United  States  Mining  Commissioner  gave  him  free 
range  among  peaks  and  canyon-,  valleys  and  'slopes,'  from  the  Rocky  Mountains 
to  the  Pacific,  and  his  keen  eye  and  witty  pen  have  made  brilliant  use  of  this 
opportunity." — Cleveland (O.)  Leader. 

"  Mr.  Raymond  possesses  a  rare  gift  of  lively  description,  and  presenting  the 
familiar  talk  of  his  characters  with  the  racy  unction  of  their  local  dialects." — N.  V. 
Tribune. 

"  Caimot  fail  to  interest  even  a  fastidious  reader." — N.  V.  Times. 

Brave  Hearts.     An  American  Novel.     Illustrations  by  Darley, 
Stephens,  F.  Beard,  and  Kendrick.     i2mo.  Cloth,  $1. 

"  A  successful  experiment.  It  is  a  tale  of  two  regions — alternations  between  the 
quiet  scenes  of  New  Eng'and  and  the  rough,  boisterous,  and  dangerous  life  of  an  ex- 
tempore Californian." — Philadelphia  Evening  Herald. 

"  A  really  good  American  novel.  .  .  .  The  purpose  of  the  book  is  indicated 
by  its  title.  It  is  a  representation  oi courage,  in  various  forms  of  individual  character." 
— Boston  Globe. 


PUBLISllED    BY     FORDS,     HOWARD,     &    HULBERT, 
27  Park  Place,  New  York. 


HARRIET  BEECHER   STOWL'S  BOOKS. 

DOMESTIC    TALES. 

My  Wife  and   I ;  or,  Harry  Henderson's  History.     A  Novel. 
Illustrated.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50, 

"Always  bright,  piquant,  and  entertaining,  with  an  occasional  touch  of  tender- 
nes";,  strong  because  subtle,  keen  in  sarcasm,  full  of  womanly  logic  directed  against 
unwomanly  tendencies." — Boston  yoiirnal. 

We  and  Our  Neighbors:   The  Records   of  an    Unfashionable 

Street.     A  Novel.     Illustrated.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

"  Mrs.  Stowe's  style  is  picturesque,  piquant,  with  just  enough  vivacity  and  vim 
to  give  the  romance  edge ;  and  throughout  there  are  delicious  sketches  of  scenes, 
with  bits  of  dry  humor  peculiar  to  her  writings." — Pittsburgh  (Pa.)  Cotnmercial, 

Poganuc    People :   Their   Loves  and  Lives.     A  Novel.     Illus 
trated.     12 mo,  cloth,  $1.50.     {Recent^     In  Mrs.  Stowe's  early 
inimitable  style  of  New  England  scene  and  character. 

"A  tertile,  ingenious,  and  rarely  gifted  writer  of  the  purely  American  type, 
doing  for  the  traditions  of  New  England,  and  its  salient  social  features,  the  same 
sort  of  service  that  Scott  rendered  to  the  Scotch  and  the  history  and  scenery  of  his 
native  land ;  that  Dickens  performed  for  London  and  its  lights  and  shadows,  its 
chronic  abuses  of  every  sort;  the  same  service  that  Victor  Hugo  has  done  for  Paris, 
in  all  its  social  state.  Mrs.  Stowe  still  keeps  the  held,  and  her  harvests  ever  grow." 
— Titusville  (Pa.)  Herald. 

The  New  Housekeeper's    Manual   and    Handy   Cook-Book. 

A  Guide  to  Economy  and  Enjoyment  in  Home  Life.  (Gives 
nearly  500  choice  and  well-tested  receipts.)  ^y  CatharIxNE 
E.  Beecher  and  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe.  '  Nearly  600 
pp.,  8vo.     Handsoi7iely  Illustrated.     Cloth,  $3. 

"Considering  the  great  variety  of  subjects  over  which  it  ranges,  one  is  aston- 
i>hed  to  find,  when  he  tesis  it  by  reference  to  any  question  on  which  he  is  personally 
well  informed,  how  accurate  is  its  teaching,  and  how  trustworthy  its  authority." — 
Independent. 

RELIGIOUS    BOOKS. 

Footsteps  of  the  Master:  Studies  in  the  Life  of  Christ.     With 

Illustrations  and  Illuminated  Titles.     i2mo.    Choicely  bound. 

Cloth,  $1.50. 

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"  A  congenial  field  for  the  exercise  of  her  choice  literary  gifts  and  poetic  tastes, 
her  ripe  religious  experience,  and  her  fervent  Christian  faith.  A  book  of  exceptional 
beauty  and  substantial  worth." — Congregationalist  (Boston), 

Bible  Heroines :  Narrative  Biographies  of  Prominent  Hebrew 
Women  in  the  Patriarchal,  National,  and  Christian  Eras. 
Imperial  Octavo.  Richly  Illustrated  in  Oil  Colors.  Elegantly 
bound.     Cloth,  $2.75  ;   clotti,  gilt  edges,  $3.25. 

"  The  fine  penetration,  quick  insight,  sympathetic  nature,  and  glowing  narra- 
tive, which  have  marked  Mrs.  Stowe's  previous  works,  are  found  in  these  pages,  and 
the  whole  work  is  on«;  which  readily  captivates  equally  the  cultivated  and  the  relig- 
ious fervent  nature."-  Boston  Commomvealth. 


This  book  must  n( 
be  taken  from  th 
Library  building. 


